


The Ylfing Bride

by ceceril



Series: Disa [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: 9th Century, Additional Warnings Apply, Beauty and the Beast Elements, Complete, Cultural Differences, Dark Ages, Dark Fairy Tale Elements, Elements of Kink, Emotional Baggage, F/M, Falling In Love, Forced Proximity, Gothic, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, Marriage of Convenience, Medieval, Mental Health Issues, Minor Character Death, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Non-Graphic Violence, One Thousand and One Nights Elements, Original Fiction, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Romance, Sharing a Bed, Size Difference, Slavery, Slow Burn, Supernatural Elements, Toxic Masculinity, Trust, Viking Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:27:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 100,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22376446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceceril/pseuds/ceceril
Summary: It's the middle of the ninth century. A Viking lord has been enchanted and it is said that only a bride can break the curse. Once eight of them have died trying, no more willing girls can be found. Enter a foreign slave with nothing to lose and everything to win.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Series: Disa [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2072295
Comments: 115
Kudos: 71





	1. Prologue: The Weavers

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** Gothic tropes galore (traditional Gothic tropes may include such things as mental illness, isolation, nightmares, confusion over what is reality and what is not, "deviant" sexuality, incest, and chronic illness), horror, allusions to violence/offscreen violence (including sexual violence), post-traumatic stress, sleep deprivation, slavery, xenophobia, period-appropriate misogynist/homophobic/xenophobic slurs, toxic masculinity, internalised kink shaming, alcohol use, drug use, references to mind control.
> 
> See the end notes for spoilery warnings. If you have specific dislikes relating to sex or violence, you might want to read them.
> 
> I've tried to use as little Old Norse as possible, but in some cases it's unavoidable. For Old Norse pronunciation/special characters, see [Wikibooks](https://en.wikibooks.org/wiki/Old_Norse/Grammar/Alphabet_and_Pronunciation), or Jackson Crawford's excellent [guide](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6Pcq23focVM) on Youtube (please do, you won't regret it).
> 
> A million thanks to my lovely editor/beta reader, [daroh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/daroh/profile), who is patient, wise, kind, and by far the best beta I've ever worked with. Thanks also to the wonderful and generous A and [mssdare](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mssdare/profile), who read the first draft! Hugs to you all!
> 
> On my Dreamwidth journal there's an [Ylfing Bride](https://ceceril.dreamwidth.org/tag/the+ylfing+bride) tag, if you want to read more "behind the scenes" stuff for each chapter. Feel free to leave a comment here, or there, whatever suits you best. I'm also on [tumblr](https://ceceril.tumblr.com/).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please refer to the end notes for a glossary of Old Norse terms and a link to a companion post/commentary on this chapter.

_Such was my Sigurd,  
Among the sons of Giuki  
As is the green leek  
O'er the low grass waxen,  
Or a hart high-limbed  
Over hurrying deer,  
Or glede-red gold  
Over grey silver._

From _Guðrúnarkviða hin forna_ , translated by William Morris and Eirikr Magnusson

***

Far above, an eagle was gliding through the air, circling ever higher above the placid sea. From where she stood, fathoms below, its wingspan looked like a filament of dark thread against the pale sky, small enough to fit on a fingernail. Then it disappeared behind the wide swathe of the forest, and Gudrun wiped her brow and continued uphill.

It had been hot for a week now. The old people said it meant summer proper would rain away, that they’d all starve come winter. They might well be right. Hunger was no stranger in these parts, where the land was nothing but rocks strewn into the sea at the beginning of time. But a fierce land bred fierce, resourceful people: men who travelled the sea-road and women who managed on their own and waited – sometimes for years – for those who might never return. Husbands sometimes perished on foreign soils, to be denied even a resting place among their ancestors, and so did fathers and brothers. Cruellest of all was the loss of sons, of youths who’d been infants in their mothers’ arms not long before.

Something colder than her own sweat chilled her spine as she thought of her own boys. For their sake, for the sake of their inheritance, she couldn’t afford to be weak. So she kept climbing, following the steep path until she reached the clearing and saw the cottage. It stood where it had always stood, nestled against the bare rock of the hillside and fringed by trees. A tendril of blue reek rose from a smoke hole in the roof. She’d spent much time here, but that was in another life. She’d changed a great deal since then, though this place had not. Small and squat, it looked like nothing; like one of the outbuildings of a farm. The walls were grey against the green of the forest and the weathered wood of the timber as smooth as a horse’s summer coat.

Had it always been so? In her memory it was larger. It had been sacred to her then, imbued with the power of the woman who’d dwelled there. She brushed down her skirts and tidied the kerchief wrapped around her hair before approaching. But when she knocked, no one came. Her awe faded. She opened the door to find the cottage empty and the fire banked. The staff lay by the hearth, the bronze house at its top shining like gold in the rich evening light. Its owner couldn’t be far away. She waited outside, swatting away the flies that danced in the sleepy air.

This place wasn’t even three arrow shots from the safe familiarity of the hall, and yet its stillness invoked another world. The scent of the hearth-smoke mingled with those of sun-warm pine and white moss baked crisp on the rocks. The indolence of it all tempted her to let her guard down. It would have fooled a lesser woman, but she knew not to let herself be tricked. Anything might be hiding in the shadows behind the trees. At the edge of her vision, she could almost see them moving in the half-light: creatures whose names should never be spoken out loud. Despite the effort it had taken her to get here, she was tempted to leave without doing what she had come here to do. She might have, but then Jorunn appeared.

“Gudrun,” she said, as if they’d met only last week. “Sister.”

She wore her uncovered hair in messy plaits wound around her head. Enough fine strands had escaped that there seemed to be a cloud of spun gold about her, like the radiance of a goddess. Then she stepped closer and wiped a strand of hair from her freckled face with an equally freckled hand and she was just a woman again, one whose looks were fading.

 _Surely I’ve taken more care of myself than that_ , Gudrun thought. _Are we that old? It seems like yesterday we were small enough that this cottage was like a mead-hall for us to play in, and now we both have children old enough to make us grandmothers._

“Jorunn,” she said out loud.

There were crow’s feet on Jorunn’s face, paler than the surrounding skin from squinting in the sunlight. But the eyes were as green as ever and the lips as rosy.

“Come in, sister.” Even when there was no man to watch, Jorunn’s hips swayed when she walked past Gudrun. Her figure was still trim: the body of a woman who hadn’t been worn out by bearing children year in and year out. “I’ll pour us something to drink.”

It was dark inside, and it was a few moments before Gudrun could see her again. Jorunn had found a drinking horn and was filling it with something from a jar. She took a sip, then offered it to her guest. When Gudrun didn’t move to accept it, Jorunn smiled again, showing sharp, white teeth. In the twilight of indoors, Gudrun could almost see Jorunn’s hugr around her, not just feel it in the charged air where it touched her own.

“Why should I listen to whatever you have to say when you disrespect me like this?” Jorunn asked, still holding out the drink. “Guests are sacred. Intruders are not.” 

Gudrun tore the horn from Jorunn’s hand and drank. The ale was flavoured with bog myrtle. It was better than Gudrun’s own. 

She wiped her mouth. “You’re not wanted here.”

“You mean to say _you_ no longer want me here.” The gentleness with which it was said made Gudrun want to claw Jorunn’s eyes out. “I’ve lived here always. What’s changed?”

“I’ve looked the other way for too long. I made myself blind and you took advantage.”

Jorunn frowned, as if she truly didn’t understand. “Your husband—”

“I don’t care what you do with him, arghola!” Gudrun felt like a pot boiling over. She swallowed. “This isn’t about him.”

“I’m no more an arghola than you are. I’m just a woman chosen by the Lady to do her work. Here, sit down and we’ll talk like grown women instead of screaming like little girls fighting over a new ribbon.”

“I won’t sit down; I came here to accuse you.”

“More than you already have?”

“I’ve seen things. I know.”

“To see isn’t to know,” Jorunn replied. Her infuriating smile was once again threatening to break through on her lips, as if they were exchanging riddles at a feast. 

Gudrun fidgeted with the horn still her hand, until Jorunn took it from her. 

“You know what I mean,” Gudrun said. “And now I want you and your offspring gone.”

Jorunn finally seemed worried. Her hugr receded, shrinking away. “You’re a rich woman. Would it bother you so to let us have the crumbs from your table?”

“Crumbs! You might as well ask for my heart’s blood to drink.”

“We all want what’s best for our children, don’t we?”

Gudrun shook her head. “It has to end; it’s not right.”

Jorunn paused. “Not right, you say? And who are you to speak of what is right or wrong? I, too, have seen things. Sixteen years ago, I saw a hunting party. I saw two men walk away from the others. I heard them talk. One of them died that day.”

Gudrun felt heat rise from inside her chest to wash over her face. At first, she couldn’t even gather her thoughts. Then came a fierce will to keep Jorunn from putting into words that which should remain unspoken.

“You know nothing. Nothing! How dare you—” She’d said too much. She pressed a hand to her mouth, as if she could swallow the words again, or at least keep more of them from escaping. 

“You choose it willingly.” Jorunn’s features went white, as if the blood colouring Gudrun’s face had been drained from hers. “Oh, Gudrun. And I thought being chosen was a punishment, that I must have done something awful to deserve it. And you wanted it!”

Gudrun didn’t immediately understand. Then she did.

“You, too?” Her voice hardly carried. “No, you’re lying. You’re nothing. You’re a peasant.”

The fine lines on Jorunn’s face deepened. She picked up her staff, as if she might need it to defend herself. The faces of the moulded animals lining the house at the top seemed to mock Gudrun. Why had she come, instead of sending armed men with torches?

“Your daughter, is she… ?”

Jorunn nodded. “And we have an ally now. Someone who wants to do what’s right.”

“Liar!” Gudrun grabbed Jorunn’s arms and was shocked to find muscle, rather than the soft flesh of her own body. “He would never—” The staff in Jorunn’s hand fell against the flagstones of the hearth, the clang too loud in the silent evening.

Gudrun was about to reach for it. What Jorunn wanted could never be. But she was too slow. Jorunn shook off her hands, and instead of trying to escape, she moved closer. She was as pale as the mistress of Hel herself, and she was big. Gudrun had forgotten how strong a woman without servants, without even a man, had to be.

Some of her pent up anger had been released, and in its stead fear seeped in. She ignored it; she widened her stance and returned Jorunn’s stare. “Had I been a man—”

“But you’re not, and neither am I. So what are we to do?”

“We have to settle things, my honour demands it.”

“Your honour? Most people would say that what you did means you don’t have any.”

“We’ll settle things,” Gudrun insisted, between clenched teeth. “By the Lady, we will. If you lose—”

“It’s not for you to set the conditions. One of us will remain and the other will be destroyed. Will you risk that? Will you gamble?”

The forest outside was quiet, but the words had been spoken now and somewhere, someone was listening. The threads of fate, already spun, were being woven. Gudrun could feel it, and from the expression on Jorunn’s face, so could she.

“There’s no other way.”

Jorunn hesitated before replying. “Then so be it. I always knew this day would come, didn’t you? And yet I’m sorry. I really am.”

“So am I,” Gudrun replied, and for one weak moment, she meant it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:
> 
> (the) Lady - The goddess Freyja, whose name literally means the lady.
> 
> Hugr - the "essence" of someone, combining aspects of personality, thought, wish, and desire. People with a strong hugr could make it leave the body. It seems to have had an aura that some people could perceive. Hugr could also be used metaphorically to refer to someone's mood or character.
> 
> Arghola - A sexually deviant/"perverse" woman. One who had an enormous sexual appetite not restrained by such things as marriage- or blood ties). A serious insult.
> 
> Gudrun - From Gud- meaning god, and -run meaning secret or secret knowledge.
> 
> Jorunn - From jǫfurr meaning lord (literally wild boar) or jór, meaning horse, and either -run, or -unn meaning beloved.
> 
> If you want to read more about my thoughts on this chapter, here's a companion post [here](https://ceceril.dreamwidth.org/6275.html).


	2. The Gambler

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a glossary of Old Norse terms in the end notes, as well as a link to a companion post/commentary.

**PART ONE – Nes**

***

_Nine years later_

Disa was roused from her sleep when Sigrid climbed over her, as eager as only a girl of six or so could be for a new day. Instantly alert, if not fully awake, Disa sat up. She fumbled for her shoes and winced; the rushes were cold, and the floor underneath colder still. But Sigrid was swift and would be gone in a heartbeat.

Shoes on, Disa reached for their clothes. She helped Sigrid into her gown before seeing to her own. She was tying the shoulder straps of her smokkr when Sigrid grew tired of waiting and disappeared into the shadows on the other side of the hearth. Night lingered in the women’s house. The fat in the lamps was solid; the fire smouldering, still to be rekindled. Disa snatched her shawl and hurried past the benches where the others slept, catching Sigrid just as she stepped over the threshold.

Outside, the eastern sky was fading. The sun would rise soon, though it no longer managed very far before sinking again. The feast of the Winter Nights and the Álfablót had come and gone, heralding the dark half of the year. Soon there would be days when the sun barely had the strength to slide over the horizon. The thought of it made Disa shudder, but Sigrid had no patience for adult sorrows. She tugged at Disa’s hand and whined, crossing her legs under her skirts.

“Come on, then,” Disa said, forcing herself to forget everything she hated about winter: chilblains, darkness, the stale air of indoors. She grabbed Sigrid’s little hand. “I’ll race you.”

Sigrid laughed, and they ran together to the outhouse.

On their way back, they washed their hands by the well. Sigrid hissed when Disa leaned over her to wash her face, to rinse away the last trace of sleep still clinging to the dark-gold lashes. Then she wiped Sigrid’s features with the edge of her shawl, ignoring the glare. She didn’t want Sigrid to look unloved; to look uncared for.

“You want to be tidy,” she said. “A chieftain’s daughter, not a beast.”

Sigrid shook her head to free herself from Disa’s hands. “But I _am_ a chieftain’s daughter,” she said, as imperious as her mother. “And you’re just a thrall!”

She aimed a kick at Disa’s shin. There was no strength to it, just the brief irritation of a spoiled child. It didn’t hurt, but Disa stepped back and tripped over her own feet to end up on her backside on the frozen ground.

“Oh, Disa!” Sigrid said, her eyes wide. “Disa, I didn’t–” The little lady was gone and she was just a girl again, her hands eager but ineffective as she helped Disa stand.

Despite the pain in her lower back, Disa said nothing about it; a thrall had no place telling her owner what to do. Besides, Sigrid was a good girl, really. Her eyes were huge and green as she stared at Disa, waiting anxiously for forgiveness.

Disa gave in, like she always did. “I know you didn’t,” she said and pulled Sigrid in for a hug. She leaned in and pressed a kiss to her forehead, where stray strands of coppery hair had escaped from under her cap.

A neigh was heard from the stables; the horses were already awake. Beyond that, in a house not too different to a byre, the farm thralls would be up. A few of the women would already be busy preparing food.

“Let’s go to the kitchen,” Disa said, taking Sigrid’s hand. “There’ll be bread and butter, and maybe an apple for you.”

Sigird had already forgotten all about their brief row, and soon she was skipping merrily along at Disa’s side, regaling her with a story she’d come up with almost entirely on her own, about a brave shieldmaiden who was also named Sigrid. All around them, the chieftain’s farm at Nes was awakening to a new day.

*

They were working with the other women – Disa weaving a ribbon for Sigrid’s new gown, and Sigrid being taught by Groa to weave the tapestries that Nes was famed for – when what might have been an ordinary day changed into something else. It was midday by then, and a sea mist had blown in: a dense, damp fog that brought the scent of brine far inland. The light from outside was no longer enough, and they had been forced to light the lamps.

They’d worked in near silence all morning, as if the stillness of the outdoors demanded it. In place of the sounds of women and girls talking and singing, there was only the rhythmic thudding of the mistress’ great loom punctuating the fainter noises of wool being combed and spun. It was Astrid, the elder of the chieftain’s foster daughters, who first heard something.

“Men,” she said, tilting her blonde head. Her fingers stilled, resting on the linen.

Hallfrid, Astrid’s younger sister, giggled. “Is that all you can think of? Even when you’re sewing a shirt for your betrothed?” The silence had weighed far heavier on Hallfrid than the others. She could barely sit still as she continued, “When you’re burned and your ashes are in the ground, they’ll call you a man-crazed slattern!”

Disa waited, ready to interfere. A year ago, Hallfrid’s words would have provoked a sharp reply and possibly some hair-pulling, but Astrid would be married by spring, and she was moulding herself into a wife. She wouldn’t allow herself to appear to care about her sister’s words. She merely sat up straighter and began sewing again, demonstrating that she was every inch the lady her sister was not.

Under other circumstances, the altercation would have been irritating, but today it was such a welcome relief from the gloom and boredom it was greeted with smiles from the women and giggles from the girls. Sigrid turned around to watch, clearly hoping for more entertainment, but there was none.

Groa cleared her throat. She didn’t say a word; she didn’t even take her eyes from the loom to give them the disapproving glare they all knew so well. Having been the mistress’ companion since their youth, she was the one in charge of the women while the mistress was away visiting her son, and it was a responsibility she took seriously. Calm was restored. Sigrid returned to her work.

But the noise from outside grew louder, until it couldn’t be denied; there wasn’t just one man, or two, but a group of them. In the fog, the sounds seemed both far away and near, making it impossible to gauge their distance from the house.

“The mistress is back,” Groa said, and not even her usual dour tone could hide the shiver of longing that rippled along her bony old body.

“Then the jarl is well.” Astrid clasped her hands over her heart. “The Lady be thanked!” 

“We’ll know that when the mistress sees fit to tell us,” Groa said, unimpressed by Astrid’s obvious toadying. “Until then, you’ll do well to keep your mouth shut.”

Disa looked up just long enough to see Hallfrid stick out her tongue at her sister, as if they were girls of Sigrid’s age, not fourteen and fifteen, old enough to wed. This time, not even Sigrid laughed. There was a tension building in the room that had nothing to do with the mistress. She would have been escorted back by her son’s men, and it was the promise of them – of something new and male and exciting – that had the girls on edge. They weren’t supposed to stand ogling in doorways, so they waited, pretending to work, only allowing themselves to stop when one of the serving boys entered.

“The mistress is back,” he said, in an unknowing echo of Groa’s words. “And she needs help to serve the jarl’s men who brought her here.”

Now the girls awakened into a flurry of activity, like eager birds flocking to pick the bounty of the sea at low tide. The warriors of the jarl’s hird were a different breed of men than the farmers of Nes, and highly coveted husbands. They were worth making a fuss about, unlike the boy, who was ignored as the girls crowded past him. The women followed as soon as decency would allow it. Disa stayed behind; she alone had no love of men who served the Spear-God.

But she hadn’t been forgotten. The door had barely closed before it opened again. Sigrid was back.

“Come, Disa!” she said, bouncing, making the beads of her necklace rattle. “Mother is home! Come, come!”

“I’m coming.”

Sigrid ran to her side. “But you have to come _now_.”

Disa tidied herself, buying some time. She smoothed down the curls that the damp weather had teased out of her plaits and from under her cap, straightened her clothes, and put her shawl back on. The mist swirled around them as they made their way to the great hall. It was a wonder the men had managed to steer their ship, that they’d found Nes at all.

Once inside the hall, Sigrid ran towards her mother. Disa remained by the door for a moment. Her eyes were drawn towards the men, whose damp cloaks and tired bodies were already scenting the air. She held her breath as she hurried past them, careful not to get too close. She didn’t trust them any more than she would a pack of wolves.

*

The mistress didn’t mention the health of the jarl – the only surviving child of her first marriage – but her face was wan, and not just with the weariness of a long journey. She was bad-tempered and made Disa put Sigrid to bed long before the men had stopped exchanging tales of gods and heroes, before the sounds of pipes and harp had been replaced by drunken singing.

Just as Disa had managed to get Sigrid to fall asleep by bribing her with a longer story than usual, the door to the women’s house slammed open and Hallfrid burst inside. She threw herself on the bench that lined the wall and curled herself into a ball against the cushions. Her sobs grew violent. Hallfrid was prone to tantrums, and Disa groaned inwardly. Sigrid would wake up if this caterwauling didn’t stop.

She made sure Sigrid was safely tucked in before she went to sit at Hallfrid’s side. “Is Astrid being mean to you?” she asked. There was no reply. “Is it the mistress?”

This time, Hallfrid nodded. Her face was half hidden behind her hair and her hands. Disa gathered her in, pillowing Hallfrid’s head against her bosom, then in her lap, as Hallfrid collapsed into her, weeping.

Rocking her, Disa spoke again. “Is it really that bad? Oh, shh, shh. Do you want me to fetch you an apple?”

Hallfrid held on to Disa’s thigh, wordlessly telling her to stay. She wept until she’d spent the worst of her sorrow, leaving a damp spot behind. Then she wiped her face and sat up to lean into Disa, even though she was the taller of them by far. In the aftermath of that great storm of emotion, her body was as pliant and warm as that of a sleepy child.

Disa held her, soothed by the soothing. Her annoyance was gone, washed away by Hallfrid’s tears. It had always pleased her to do this: to see others’ sadness give way to something better, knowing she’d caused the transformation. And people were always so much easier to deal with when they were sad, when the only thing they wanted was the comfort that meant so much to them and so relatively little to her.

“She’s sending me away,” Hallfrid said in that high-pitched, exaggeratedly childish tone of hers.

“The mistress?”

“She said I’m to marry.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?” Disa asked, hoping to make her smile. Privately, she couldn’t help but wonder what the mistress was thinking, betrothing a girl who didn’t even have the wits of a child half her age. She stroked Hallfrid’s shoulder and waited for an answer.

“It’s the jarl! The mistress’ son!” Hallfrid said, straightening up and turning to face Disa. “He’s old, as old as you! And that’s not the worst part!”

The words stung. By her own reckoning, Disa was five and twenty or thereabouts, but she didn’t feel as old as all that. Being manless and constantly surrounded by girls ensured that she had more in common with maidens on the cusp of womanhood than matrons her own age.

“What could possibly be worse than ending up with a man as ancient as I am?” she said to humour Hallfrid, who would never be good enough for the mistress’ precious son.

“He’s cursed.” Hallfrid was silent for a beat, as if to let the words sink in. “You remember when the comb-maker told us the mistress had an ancestor who was half troll? And the mistress found out and had Groa give us all a good thrashing for listening to lies?” She took Disa’s hands and leaned in closer.

Disa nodded.

“Well, it wasn’t lies,” Hallfrid whispered urgently. “Now the jarl has succumbed to his troll blood and he turns nasty at night. He demands they bring him maidens and then he marries them and beds them and then he kills them! He sleeps all day and at night he’s awake, mauling anything that dares to be outside after dark.” She began to weep again. “And they’re all out of maidens up there, and… And now the mistress says I have to go. I have to cure him, or he’ll die. And I don’t know anything about litch… I mean leechcraft!”

Disa had heard a similar tale long ago, before being taken. It had been the one she’d begged her mother to tell her over and over again, gasping in awe at how the clever Shirazad had risked everything to make sure the king didn’t kill any more maidens. She’d never known the northerners had their own version of it.

“Did the mistress tell you all that?” she asked.

“Astrid heard the men whispering about it. I’m not making things up!”

“Master would never let the mistress give you to a man who’d hurt you.”

“He’d do anything for her. Anything. Astrid says she’s got him by the–”

“What did the mistress say?” Disa tried to keep her voice gentle, and not too eager.

“She said she’d been told a bride would cure him.”

It was only natural that a girl like Hallfrid would see only the risk, rather than the reward that beckoned behind it. Unlike her, Disa had nothing to lose, except the life that was no longer her own. She knew how the story ended; why shouldn't she be the one to save the jarl and earn her freedom?

“I’ll go and talk to the mistress,” she said, already trying to work it all out in her head. 

“You would do that? Oh, Disa!” Hallfrid clasped her hands over her heart. Despite the shiny nose and swollen eyes, she was still so unfairly pretty. “You’re the best friend a girl could wish for!”

Her gratitude made Disa uncomfortable. She extricated herself, and was out of the door before Hallfrid could say another word. 

In the cold night air, she almost lost heart. She was on the verge of deciding that this was like all of her previous plans to escape: just an insane whim that she could never go through with. Then the door to the hall opened, adding the red gleam from within to the scant circle of light around the single torch. A warrior stumbled outside, his arm around the shoulders of one of the new Irish thrall girls. Disa stopped. She stayed in the shadows as the pair walked by, their faces briefly illuminated. The girl didn’t protest as she was led away into a byre: the torchlight offered Disa a glimpse of a face that was vacant, devoid of either excitement or fear. Once they’d disappeared, Disa no longer had any doubts. She waited until she was sure the warrior wasn’t coming back, then dashed to the hall like a hunted hare running for safety.

Inside, she found that the chieftain and the mistress had already retired, and that the men were deep in their cups. She didn’t like the way the warriors looked at her, as if she were some strange dish they’d never sampled before. Unlike the chieftain’s men, they wouldn’t know that she was Sigrid’s, and therefore out of bounds. She thought it unlikely anyone would have the guts to tell them.

She escaped through the kitchen door, then made for the chieftain’s house. She left herself no time for another change of heart. Once she’d uttered a prayer to herself in a language she only half remembered, she was about to knock on the door when a voice from inside made her freeze.

“I told you – I need the girl,” the mistress said. “She’s not betrothed; why do you refuse?”

Curiosity was a dangerous vice for a thrall, and yet Disa leaned in and pressed her ear against the door.

“Unnaste,” The chieftain pleaded. _Dearest_. He cleared his throat, the way he did when he didn’t know what to say and was stalling. “I refuse, because she’s my dead sister’s daughter. Before she died, I promised Ingiborg I would see her daughters well married. I’ll keep my promise. Hallfrid isn’t yours to give away.”

There was silence, icy even at a distance, before the mistress spoke again. “The man I married wouldn’t have denied me anything.”

“That might be so, but your husband has obligations beyond you, dearest. I won’t be forsworn, not even for you. You’ll simply have to find another girl for your boy.”

“And let my only son die? Don’t you know a mother will do anything for her child?”

“But what about Hallfrid? She, too, had a mother! I can’t let you send my foster daughter, my own sister’s daughter, to her death.”

“You’ve been listening to rumours, haven’t you? No? Then what? Is a jarl not good enough for your precious Hallfrid? Will you find her a better man? I tell you, there’s no better on this earth–”

“The other girls died.”

“Peasants, the lot of them. They weren’t good enough.”

Disa gasped.

The next moment the door flew open and the mistress towered over her like a giantess. Disa lowered her head and waited for the blow. Instead, the mistress seized her arm and pulled her inside.

“What did you hear?”

“Nothing, mistress.”

This time there was a blow: a slap to her left cheek that almost made her fall over. “Don’t lie to me.”

“You wanted to give Hallfrid to your son, mistress. To break a curse. But I already knew–”

“Sit down.”

Disa sagged onto a pillowed bench.

“Easy,” the chieftain said, his voice just a low rumbling.

The mistress didn’t acknowledge him. “You want your ears cut off for eavesdropping?”

Disa shook her head.

”Why are you here?”

”Hallfrid sent me–”

”The silly child sent a thrall to plead for her? It’s a shame her sister’s betrothed, or I would’ve sent her instead.”

This, Disa knew in an instant, was her chance. “You don’t have to send either of them, mistress. Take me instead.” She expected to be slapped again. She stared at the hem of the mistress’ blue smokkr and waited. Nothing happened.

Then the mistress laughed. “You? And what can a black little raven like you do that eight freeborn girls before you have failed to do?”

“What does it matter if I live or die, mistress? You can buy a new thrall come spring.”

There was a tinkle of silver and glass as the mistress toyed with the beads strung over her bosom. “A thrall will do anything to get her freedom. Is that what you want, girl? The reward you’ll get if you save my son?”

Disa couldn’t think of anything to say. It didn’t matter; when she dared to look up, the mistress’ expression had transformed into the one she wore when haggling with vendors at the market.

She wasn’t the only one to have noticed the change.

“Dearest,” the chieftain protested, his ruddy face a shade darker than a moment ago. “That girl was our daughter’s tooth gift. We won’t find another like her easily. She came all the way from Serkland!”

The mistress shrugged. “You’ll buy Sigrid that cream-coloured mare she wanted. It’ll ease the pain.”

“She cost me a fortune.” The chieftain was subdued now, like someone who knew he’d already lost. “And now I’ll have to buy an expensive horse, too?”

The mistress didn’t even glance at him. She didn’t need to. “You want to be remembered as a mean man, husband?” Her voice was deceptively mild. “You want the men who build your pyre to speak ill of your memory? Hm?”

“Of course not.” He rubbed his palms together, as if the room had gone cold. “Of course not. You’re right, as always, dearest. Better an expensive thrall than a priceless niece.”

The mistress didn’t appear to be listening to him. She was focused on Disa. “And what have you to say for yourself?”

“You’ve often said I was your daughter’s good fate, mistress.”

“Perhaps your name really means something, my little Dís. Perhaps you were never meant for my daughter, but for my son,” the mistress said, as if to herself. Then, louder, she added, “You’ll do.”

Disa bowed her head. She’d made her move now. There was nothing to do but wait.

*

That night, she lay awake staring at the fire long after the others had fallen asleep.

“Mother,” she whispered, watching the low flames as she did her best to summon the face she hadn’t seen for so long. “Mother, help me do whatever it is they want of me. I know how the story ends. Let that mean something.” The moment the last word had left her mouth, she felt a rush of fear. Like an inexperienced player staring for too long at the gaming pieces, she’d revealed her next move, giving the unseen powers working against her an advantage.

She stared deep into the hottest part of the fire, as if its sacred purity had the power to cleanse her from fear and uncertainty. “If I can’t ever go back, then at least make them give me my freedom, and a husband who’s always away, and a farm where I could be my own mistress.” The rage, her constant companion, rose again from the depths in which it slumbered when she didn’t feed it. “What better revenge,” she said, her voice nearly breaking, “than for me to be free again and never spare the men who hurt us another thought?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:
> 
> Álfablót - a sacrifice to the elves towards the end of autumn.
> 
> The Winter Nights - a feast in mid-October that marked the beginning of winter.
> 
> Smokkr - a type of outer gown worn by Viking Age Scandinavian women. It was sleeveless, and the straps were secured either by tying, or using what archaeologists have termed "tortoise brooches".
> 
> Jarl - A cognate of the Anglo-Saxon Earl. A chieftain who ruled a territory in a king's stead, or a sovereign prince. I've used it in the latter sense.
> 
> Hird (hirð) - the retinue of a ruler, specifically the warriors.
> 
> (the) Spear-God - One of the many names used for the god Óðinn, the god of warriors and lords.
> 
> Troll - Demonic being. In Old Norse mythology, the term troll overlaps with various other beings, such as giants. They tend to be unfriendly and have knowledge of magic.
> 
> Shirazad (Šīrāzād) - Scheherazade, the storyteller of One Thousand and One Nights.
> 
> Serkland - The Abbasid Caliphate and neighbouring regions. Probably a Norse catch-all term for predominantly Muslim regions.
> 
> Tooth gift - a gift given to a child when their first teeth appears.
> 
> Unnaste - Dearest, most beloved. From the verb "unna", to love.
> 
> Dísir - minor deities or mythological beings related to destiny/fate and fertility. Dís could also mean goddess or female supernatural being in general.
> 
> Disa - Short or affectionate form of any female name ending with -dís or -dísa from Dís meaning goddess or female supernatural being in general, or one of the Dísir (fate goddesses) in particular.
> 
> Sigrid - From Sig- meaning victory, and -frid meaning peace, love, or possibly protection.
> 
> Astrid - From As- meaning the Norse gods and -frid.
> 
> Hallfrid - From Hall- meaning flagstone/stone slab and -frid.
> 
> Groa - from the verb gróa, meaning to grow, flourish, heal.
> 
> There's a companion post [here](https://ceceril.dreamwidth.org/6618.html), if you want to read more about this chapter.


	3. Such was my Sigurd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a glossary in the end notes and a link to a companion post.

***

The morning of Disa’s journey dawned sunny and bright, the air so clear one might almost see Jutland at the other side of the water. The jarl’s ship lay waiting for her on the waves, it's sleek body dark against the silver shimmer, like a seal ready to dive again at a moment’s notice. Disa had avoided its crew by never straying far from the women's house, but now she’d be forced to spend days and nights with them. She saw the mistress exchange a ceremonial farewell with the chieftain. As tall as him and with a back as straight as the staff in her right hand, she was inviolable, and so, Disa hoped, she herself would be.

Groa, holding Sigrid’s hand, approached her. “You’ve done us all proud,” she said, her face as stony as always. “I’ll ask the Lady to look kindly on you and give you a place in her hall.” 

Then Hallfrid slipped between them, careless of the harsh marram grass brushing her fine skirt. Weeping loudly, she hugged Disa. “I don’t want you to go,” she whimpered between sobs. Tears clumped her long lashes. “Oh, Disa, don’t go!”

“Someone has to.” Disa patted her back without quite managing to return the hug.

“I suppose you’re right.” Hallfrid let go of her and dabbed at her tiny nose. “Well! I’ll always think of you fondly.” She giggled, as if everything was once again as it should be.

“As will I,” Astrid said. Her blue eyes were cold, and a little wary. As if she feared that, at the last moment, Disa might be deemed unworthy, forcing Hallfrid to go. “I hope your death is easy; that you’ll get your reward in the afterlife.” With a terse smile, she turned to her sister. “Come, let’s go home now. You’ve said what you wanted to say.”

Groa went with them, but Sigrid remained. She had sulked about Disa leaving, but even as a spoiled only child, she knew better than to challenge her mother. At Nes, one might as well try to change the course of the sun and the moon than go against the mistress’ will.

“Mother says my brother needs you more than I do,” she said and caught Disa’s hand. “Even though he’s a big boy who shouldn’t need someone to dress him, and comb his hair, and tell him stories. Just don’t tell him my stories! The ones about Sigrid the shieldmaiden you made up just for me.”

“He’ll be so grateful. And of course I’ll never tell him your special stories. They’re just yours.”

“They say he’s terribly ill. You’ll save him, won’t you? Like you’ve always saved me?”

“I’ll try.” Sigrid was clever for her age; there was no point in lying to her.

“He can’t die.” Sigrid’s eyes were as huge as those of an owl in her small face. “Mother says he’s the greatest warrior there is, and the most handsome. You can’t let him die.”

“I’ll do what I can.” Disa tried to smile, but her face wouldn’t obey. “You be good now. Take care of your father and the girls, and remember you’re the mistress of Nes when your mother’s gone.”

Sigrid still wouldn’t let her go. “But you’ll be back, won’t you?” Her mouth trembled. “And… and bring my brother, please? I’d very much like to meet him. I’ll have a new horse to show him. And I’d let you borrow it, too.”

“I’ll do my best.” Disa hugged Sigrid and pressed a kiss to her forehead, smelling her hair one last time. “I’ll miss you.”

Sigrid smiled, but there were tears in her eyes. She rarely wept, and the sight made Disa hurt inside. For the first time, she admitted to herself what this madness of hers would involve. Who’d take care of Sigrid when she was gone? Who’d look after her? But no, she couldn’t think like that. If she wanted to be free, she had to harden her heart. Sigrid had her father, and Groa, and the girls. She would be as safe as anyone could be in this harsh world.

“And I’ll miss you.” Sigrid wiped at her eyes before the tears could spill. “I know Mother says you’re just a thrall, but…” She stiffened her spine and clenched her little hands into fists. “I wish it had been Hallfrid going, not you. I don’t care if she dies, she’s so silly!”

“But I’m _not_ silly. Which is why I’m going, not her.” Disa knew she should add: _To make sure your brother lives_ , but it would be a lie, or at least partly a lie, since she only wanted the jarl to live so that she could earn her reward.

Sigrid hugged her again. “You are clever,” she agreed. “And that’s why you’re not going to die, and that’s why you’re coming back.” Though still speaking quietly, she said the words slowly and with great emphasis, trying to make them strong enough that fate would have to take them into account. Then she darted off, making her way through the crowd to her father. He gathered her into the safety of his arms and she curled up, sucking her thumb as she stared at the ship.

“Disa!” The mistress called, and Disa went.

Before she could wade into the water, one of the warriors grabbed her and threw her over his shoulder. He hefted her onboard the ship like cargo, and she couldn’t even find the voice to scream, only listen in horror as Sigrid did it for her. Then the captain called out and the men began to row.

*

Seasick and homesick, Disa retreated into herself, the way she had on that first long journey, on the ship that had brought her away. She kept her eyes on the coast, at the thin line where land and tide met, turning her back on the horror of the open sea. The landscape changed as they made their way north. The hills grew into mountains, into cliffs that looked like steep walls built by giants. They made everything – the ship, the men, the settlements they passed – seem tiny and insignificant. 

At first, it rained for days on end, shrouding the mountains in grey. Then it grew colder and the sun returned. One morning, the land had crumbled into isles; there seemed to be no mainland. The mountains had shrunk into hills again. The highest ones were crowned with snow, but on the rest of the land there was only frost to mute the dark green and greyish-brown of pine trees and heather. Disa had never known that she’d come to appreciate Nes until she was faced with this bleak nothingness.

“We’ll reach Sunda soon,” the mistress said, watching the landscape with the same air of proud ownership she would have bestowed on one of her tapestries. “My son’s hall and the seat of my family. My husband inherited the jarldom through me. It was my brother who was jarl before him, as my father was before _him_.”

They were standing apart from the men, who were busy on the shore below, readying the ship for the day’s journey. Disa was certain the mistress wanted more than for them to admire the view together. She waited.

“You think I don’t notice things,” the mistress said. “That thralls are beneath me. But I know about you. You’re a clever little thing, aren’t you? A little schemer; a plotter. But you’ll find it harder to rule my son than my husband’s scatterbrained nieces. Know this: out of the three of my sons who survived childhood, only one is still alive. The strongest.”

Disa began to feel as if she’d stumbled into some dark tale she had never heard before, one that refused to follow the rules and logic she had expected.

But the mistress was lost in her memories, enchanted by the beauty of her own voice. “As soon as he was born I gave him to the High One, to the Much-Wise, to the Spear-God. I made sure he grew up with a wolf’s heart and a wolf’s hugr; without knowing neither pain nor fear. I hardened him so that he’d be worthy of his name and his blood: a perfect lord and a perfect warrior.” She smiled even wider, beaming with a furious glee. “We are Ylfingar, my Sigurd and I,” the mistress continued, savouring the words and their effect on Disa. “And they were descended of the Volsungar, who were the descendants of the Spear-God himself.”

If Disa could have cursed her former self who’d agreed to this madness, she would have. She had belonged to a little girl, and had been safe in the world of women. Now she had given herself to a man, and not just any man. The mistress’ ancestors were no secret to anyone who’d spent more than an evening at Nes, and like everyone else Disa knew the bloody tales of the long-dead Volsungar: of Volsung himself, who’d spent six years in his mother’s womb, before being cut out; of his daughter Signy who’d seduced her brother Sigmund to beget a son to avenge her father and kill her husband; and of Sigmund’s youngest son Sigurd, who’d slayed a dragon. She knew, and yet she’d refused to consider what it said about the jarl. Now she was forced to: the Volsungar had been the first wolf warriors, men able to change the shape of their hamr and become wolves, the animals their descendants the Ylfingar were still named for.

“I taught him well,” the mistress said. “He has all the knowledge a man of his standing should have, and more. He knows how to please the gods with sacrifices and divinations, and by leading a life that befits a lord.”

Wolf warriors were said to know how to sing galdrar that could calm the waves, put out flames, dull swords, and bend the will of others. Of all those things, it was the last Disa feared the most. If she lost her wits, she had nothing. She closed her eyes for a moment, forcing her heart to be calm and her head to remain cool. Shirazad hadn’t let herself be cowed, so why should she? After all, as intimidating as the jarl might be, he was dependent on her for his survival. She alone had the skills to save him. 

She didn’t need to say the words out loud; her composure must have shown it.

“We’ve spoiled you,” the mistress said and touched Disa’s cheek in what, to someone watching them, might have looked like a caress. Her eyes were like those of a bird of prey; or a dragon, perhaps. Disa found that she couldn’t look away. “ _He_ won’t let you get away with your usual tricks. You’ll see. Oh, you’ll see.”

The sound of steps crunching on the frosty heather broke the spell. The mistress turned, instantly forgetting about Disa.

“Yes, Thiostolf?” she said, addressing the captain in a bored tone. “Have the men finished their leisurely breakfast and are ready to go? So soon? I’m amazed. Perhaps we’ll reach Sunda before the Long Night, after all.”

The captain, his head still lowered, muttered something that might have been anything from an apology to a comment on the weather. He remained until the mistress had passed, her cloak almost brushing him as she made her way to the ship. Then he made the sign against evil and straightened up again. 

Disa spent the last stretch of their journey trying not to think of the jarl at all. In the daytime, she succeeded, but at night, her fears betrayed her and her dreams were haunted by a savage creature that was almost man one moment, almost beast the next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:
> 
> The High One (also the Much-Wise, The Lord of the Dead, etc.) - Some of the many names used for the god Óðinn.
> 
> Galdr - a spell or a charm. It was sung, perhaps in a high-pitched voice.
> 
> Ylfingar - Literally the wolf clan. An ancient Norse dynasty.
> 
> Volsungar - A mythical clan or dynasty, named after its founder, Volsung (Vǫlsungr).
> 
> Hugr - the "essence" of someone, combining aspects of personality, thought, wish, and desire. People with a strong hugr could extend their influence beyond their own body, and even make it leave the body. It seems to have had an aura that some people could perceive. Hugr could also be used metaphorically to refer to someone's mood or character.
> 
> Hamr - meaning skin/hide or outer garment. The body's physical form, the shell that held the other aspects of the self together. It was also the name of the temporary shape of the hugr in someone who had let their hugr leave their body. The hamr is what changed when someone "shape-shifted" (skipta hǫmum/ hamask).
> 
> Wolf warrior (Úlfhéðinn/úlfhéðnar. Úlfhéðinn is the singular, úlfhéðnar the plural) - Warriors associated with spears, wolves, and the god Óðinn. Similar, but less well-known, to berserkr.
> 
> Long Night - The polar night, the opposite of the midnight sun, when the sun doesn't rise above the horizon.
> 
> Nes - headland/promontory - there are thousands of placenames in Scandinavia and areas settled by Scandinavians that feature the -nes/ness/näs/næs element.
> 
> Sunda - The name means sound (as in the geographical feature). Sund/sunda, like -nes is a common feature of Scandinavian place names. Just like the word sound in modern English, it also means hale/healthy (as in "of sound mind"). 
> 
> Thiostolf - From þjóstr, meaning violence and ulfR, meaning wolf.
> 
> Sigurd (Sigurðr) - From Sig- meaning victory and -urð from -vard, meaning guardian.
> 
> If you want to read my thoughts on this chapter, there's a companion piece [here](https://ceceril.dreamwidth.org/6803.html).


	4. Into the Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see the end notes for a glossary and a link to a companion post.

**PART TWO – Sunda**

***

The day was fading when the ship entered the strait that had given Sunda its name. It was then, in the deep blue of the drawn-out northern twilight, that Disa first saw the great hall. Black against the hoarfrosted trees of the islands behind it, it lay perched on top of a hill like a resting dragon. It was fearsome enough on its own, but then the mistress stood and lifted her hand in an unreadable greeting towards the low hills of the opposite island. Only then did Disa notice the pockmarks of recent pyres on the ground. Anyone approaching the hall from the sea was meant to be surrounded by the jarls of Sunda, both living and dead. She shuddered, as, no doubt, she was meant to do.

Once the jarl’s island drew nearer, she saw that a group of cloaked hirdmen had gathered on the shore. Their torches were like stars in the deepening night. Too soon, the ship came to a stop and two of the men waded out into the water. Before Disa could protest, one of the ship’s crew had grabbed her and handed her over. Together with the mistress, she was deposited on the beach. She was still finding her bearings when a man detached himself from the group, tall even among the tall warriors. He looked at Disa, his face as still and devoid of feeling as a mask, before he turned his attention to the mistress.

“Welcome, mother.” His voice was deeper than Disa had expected, as soft and dark as the night around them. “And the maiden?”

“This is Disa,” the mistress said, grabbing Disa’s arm. “I brought her for you.”

The jarl looked at Disa again, and she at him. She had never expected him to look so familiar. It was uncanny to see the features she knew so well – the triangular face and the large, wide-set eyes – in a male face. It was as if some trickster god had taken everything that was lively and lovely about Sigrid and stretched it out, making it bony and ugly. He looked like something created in haste by a careless hand. His limbs were too long and lanky, his face had too many angles, and his skin was the palest she’d seen on a living man. 

Sigrid’s hair, as red as new copper, was a dull red-gold on him. He wore it long; it brushed his shoulders. He’d tied half of it back to keep it from his face, but some slatternly strands had escaped, framing his face. Was he bound by some vow, or didn’t he care that he almost looked like a woman? The rest of him wasn't much better. His ridiculous attempt at a beard was sparse, even when compared to that of his countrymen of a similar age. The stray hairs on his cheeks were as light as the first down on a boy’s face, golden in the torchlight. And just as on a boy, there was dirt under his fingernails.

His clothes completed the picture of someone who’d given up on himself: a rumpled cloak fastened with a ring-brooch that he seemed to have clasped whilst drunk or half asleep, and loose-fitting trousers that looked slept in. The leg windings on his left shin were coming undone. He was nothing the wolf-like beast that had haunted her dreams. If anything, he recalled the moulting lynx she’d seen last spring, all shaggy and rake-thin after a long winter. So this was the handsome warrior son the mistress was so proud of. Well, well. Perhaps the rest of what she’d heard about him would prove just as false? 

“I forget myself,” the jarl said, breaking the silence. He spoke with the careful pronunciation of the rich, but even so, Disa could detect the northern accent. “It’ll be night soon, and you don’t want to be outside when it is. Come, you’re awaited at the hall.”

His tall, starved body should have been clumsy; his limbs strung together too loosely. But just like the lynx, he had a hunter’s graceful gait. He strode up the slope with his mother at his side and only stumbled once, as if someone had tripped him. Disa followed, surrounded by warriors. Their cloaks were thrown back and their hands lingered near their swords. What they were wary of, she tried not to wonder.

*

There were torches outside the door of the hall, but no guards. Disa’s steps faltered, but the men around her were eager to get inside, and she was ushered into a small vestibule, then into the lower hall, where it seemed most of the inhabitants of Sunda had already gathered. The men from the ship dissolved into the crowd without much commotion. There were no noisy reunions; no words of greeting. The people gathered in the hall were all interested in something else. She was so tired it took her a moment to understand that she was the one everyone was looking at.

In the years since she’d arrived at Nes, she’d left only a handful of times once Sigrid grew old enough to accompany her parents on visits. Though people were always curious about the eastern treasure, the chieftain’s eagerness to display Disa and tell everyone how much he’d paid for her tended to exhaust that curiosity sooner rather than later. These people hadn’t expected her at all, and they stared brazenly. The women cooking by the hearth rose to get a better view. An old man opened his mouth in a toothless, mirthless grin and laughed. A small boy, his upper lip shiny with snot, pointed. 

The jarl himself didn’t seem to notice his people at all. He made for the the end of the hall and sank into his high seat like a man thrice his age. Then he made a sign, an almost exhausted flick of his bony fingers, and a pair of serving boys appeared with a bench, followed by girls carrying bowls of water. Disa was made to sit down next to the mistress, and the girls washed their hands and feet for them, drying them with warm towels. Such a lavish display of hospitality was the last thing she’d expected to be put through. She wondered if this was how the Yule hog felt once it was singled out to be fattened and pampered all autumn.

To distract herself, she looked around, beyond the servants already busy setting up the tables for the evening meal. The jarl’s hall was like someone’s vision of the hall of the Spear-God: the walls were hung with tapestries interspersed with shields and spears, and high above, raised on timber posts painted red, the beams of the ceiling were almost lost in clouds of smoke from the hearths and torches.

Then she realised that the weapons were tarnished with rust and spiders had been busy in every available nook and cranny. By now the webs were thickened with dust, and they waved in the draught like tattered banners. And despite the wealth, it was an unhappy household. The jarl wasn’t the only one who looked unwell; every face that Disa laid eyes upon was pale and pinched. The children were hushed, the dogs lying in wait for bones hadn’t risen to greet their master. It reminded her of another hall altogether: that of Loki’s pale-blue daughter, the mistress of Hel. Away from the fires, the darkness seemed less like the absence of light than a substance of its own, barely kept in check. 

“You and the maiden will sit with me, mother,” the jarl said, once the washing was over and the tables were set. Reluctantly, he climbed down from his high seat. He ignored – or didn’t see – the way the mistress stiffened at the very thought of sitting down to eat with a thrall.

The bench was covered in sheep skins. After spending so much time on a ship, forced to sit on bare planks, it felt to Disa like sinking into eiderdown cushions. When the jarl’s closest men joined them, the captain of the ship sat down at her other side. She would have moved away from him, but she was even less keen on getting any closer to the mistress. Once the men had settled, a handful of boys filed in, carrying torches. She expected them to light more lamps, but instead they remained flanking their lord.

At the jarl’s signal, water was brought in for everyone to wash their hands, before serving girls began serving the meat and filling the cups. While they worked their way towards the people in the lower hall, the jarl leaned in front of his mother to address Disa.

“You must be hungry.” His voice carried in the silence around them.

Now she noticed what she hadn't before, that his eyes were a startling yellow colour, like those of a beast. She realised that she was staring and looked away. But he wouldn't let her be; he insisted on offering her the best pieces from his own plate.

“You need nourishment after your long journey.” His hand wobbled as he used his knife to move the meat from his plate to hers. It made him fall silent, and for that Disa was grateful. She could sense the mistress’ displeasure like the heat of a fire on her skin.

Quiet, determined not to draw attention to herself again, she bowed her head and ate. The fatty pork and the wheat bread swelled in her mouth. After the ordeal of the sea voyage, she would have preferred porridge and sour milk, not the rich food of the wealthy. By the time the men had started drinking in earnest, her plate was still more than half full.

“There will be other thralls grateful to eat that,” the mistress said. She turned to her son, who’d eaten even less. No wonder he was so thin. “Sigurd, where’s your skald? Is he so drunk he can’t be bothered to entertain me with the deeds of my ancestors?”

A stout, sandy-haired man opposite Disa dropped the marrow-bone he’d been sucking. It fell on the table, then on to the floor. The man looked as if he might be sick, even though he still looked sober enough.

“If he’s drunk,” the jarl said, “it wouldn’t be on my mead.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ragnar the skald is dead, mother. He was mauled the night following your departure. I expect he’s in the Spear-God’s hall now, entertaining the fallen warriors.”

The mistress didn’t reply for a moment or two, then she shrugged. “Good riddance. I’ll find you a better one.”

“Don’t worry about that now.” The jarl passed his drinking horn to the boy standing behind him. “We have much to discuss that’s not for others to hear.”

The mistress grabbed Disa’s arm. “Get up. You’re going to earn your keep.”

They followed the jarl beyond the high seat, to a door in the corner. Two boys lit their way into an antechamber and through another door into a large inner room. It was even more lavish than the hall. The walls were covered in tapestries, and the floor in rugs. Only the area around the hearth was left bare, displaying smooth flagstones bathed in the red glow of the fire. Flanking the hearth were comfortable-looking seats. The rest of the furniture consisted of chests along the walls, a few stools, and the largest bridal bed Disa had ever seen. 

So as not to let anyone who entered forget that the jarl was a warrior, there were also weapons: shields leaning against the foot of the bed, spears stacked over one of the chests, and quivers of arrows for hunting and war carelessly tossed into a corner. All the wealth stashed into one place made it seem more like a burial chamber about to be sealed in a mound or set ablaze on a pyre than a place where anyone would choose to spend the night. 

The cold air, like that of a cave, only reinforced that impression. She could see her own breath. The open gable window – tiny, perched atop the slanting lower portion of the roof to let out the smoke that gathered up by the rafters – explained the chill, but didn’t make it any easier to bear. Somewhat nearer to the floor, where the lower roof ended, was another window. It was shuttered, but with a ladder standing next to it, suggesting it was used to let in daylight.

The jarl seated himself by the hearth and motioned for them to join him. He seemed the only one comfortable with the funereal splendour of the surroundings; though not exactly relaxed, he was more at ease here than in the hall. He stretched out his long legs to warm his feet by the fire. The serving boys had picked up the tension their master had shrugged off. They darted around like sparrows, always on the alert as they lit lamps, tended the fire, and filled braziers. As soon as they were able, they scurried off, closing the door safely behind them.

“What do you know of my illness?” the jarl asked Disa. He looked more tired now, as if being left alone allowed him to lower his guard.

She hesitated and before she could find the courage to speak, the mistress had done so on her behalf.

“She knows there’s a curse and that a girl is needed.”

“But I thought… You said we’d try something else this time…” His voice dwindled. He began picking at the hem of his tunic. Just like that, he’d turned from an aloof lord into a bumbling boy. Had Disa not been well acquainted with the mistress’ gift for making anyone uneasy, she would have been impressed.

“She’s your sister Sigrid’s tooth gift, Sigurd,” the mistress said. “She comes with her blessing.”

The jarl stared at his hearth instead of her. The lights and shadows made a mockery of his features, deepening the hollows of his illness. “You mean to tell me she has no powers, that she isn’t much-knowing? She’s just another sacrifice, and a thrall at that!” Only then did he meet her gaze. “Mother, what in the name of the nine worlds below were you thinking?”

“She’s no ordinary thrall, my darling,” the mistress said, as close to begging as Disa had ever heard her. “Look at her skin, her hair. She’s from Serkland, the land of silk and silver.”

This caught the jarl’s attention.

But the mistress wasn’t done. Her fingers closed around Disa’s wrist, lifting her hand. “Look, Sigurd. Look how soft her little hands are; how well-fed she is. We’ve treated her almost as a foster daughter. We’ve dressed her prettily and let her keep her hair. She offered herself when she heard of your plight. Won’t you let her help you? For my sake, and for your sister’s, I beg you! She may not have my gifts, but the Lady has favoured her. Her name has meaning; she’s the good fate you’ve been waiting for.”

The jarl shook his head, but not before he’d shot what looked like an unwilling glance at Disa’s hands. “I told you, mother. No more girls. I’ve indulged you long enough. I won’t do it again.”

“So what are you going to do? Give up and die?” The mistress let go of Disa and went to stand behind him, clasping his shoulders. She leaned in close and pressed her cheek against his. “Think of your duty.” Her voice was just a whisper.

The jarl closed his eyes. He turned his head so that his face was no longer touching hers. The wide shoulders hunched so that he seemed to shrink. The boy Disa had seen as the mistress first confounded him was back. The mistress didn’t seem to notice his discomfort. She stroked – no, caressed – his face, easing him back so that they were cheek to cheek again. Disa didn’t know where to look.

“You’re the jarl, my darling,” the mistress said into his ear, her lips almost touching it. “You’re of the highest, most noble blood. Sometimes others must die so that you may live. Your hirdmen—”

“My hirdmen!” The jarl shook her off in a violent spasm, like someone startling awake from a nightmare. It was the first time Disa had ever heard anyone raise their voice at the mistress.

He stood, facing his mother. His seat remained between them. The mistress tried to walk around it, but he moved away. They circled each other briefly before the mistress gave up.

“You’re comparing girls to warriors now?” The jarl sounded as if he could barely keep his voice from trembling, but from anger or contempt, Disa couldn’t say. “My men may gamble with their lives when they follow me over the sea, but they know the risks they take.”

He glared at his mother and she glared back. Disa had known that the meekness wouldn’t last, but she hadn’t expected it to be thrown aside so soon.

“And you think women don’t gamble, boy?” There was venom in that low, sweet voice. “You think because someone has no cock they must also lack a brain? You always were the cleverest of my sons, but by the Lady, right now you don’t sound it.”

The jarl opened his mouth, but before he could speak, the mistress went on.

“The girl who saves you and survives stands to gain a great fortune. They know it. Fool boy, you think I’ve had to force any of these brides into your bed? You think they didn’t offer themselves, eager to succeed where others had not?”

The jarl’s blush washed over his hollow cheeks. Even his ears turned red. But when he spoke, his voice was steady. It appeared he wouldn’t let himself be goaded. “Someone risking their life should own that life completely. Set her free before you tell her everything. Then she may decide if she wants to do it.”

“A thrall has no honour. As soon as she’s free, she has what she wants. She won’t risk anything.”

Disa would have laughed, had she dared. Freedom, but to do what? Where would she go without her former owner’s blessing?

“Set her free. Or I won’t let her help me, and I will die.”

The mistress’ lips moved soundlessly: a prayer perhaps, or a curse. Then the words became audible, “I would the trolls had taken that worthless nurse of yours before you suckled all that weakness and stupidity from her teat. Selfish, selfish boy! You would end our line – spill the precious blood I gave you – and let Rognvald and his sons take the jarldom? You want me to die of shame for having given birth to such an unmanly son?”

The jarl clenched his teeth and refused to speak, so that the mistress was the one forced to end the deadlock. With the chilly grace she might have used to greet a not altogether welcome guest to the hall, she spoke. “Very well. It seems I must be the one to give in.”

“You’ll free her?”

“Only if you agree to another wedding.”

“As you please. She’ll be the ninth bride if she wishes it, but she has to be the last. No, spare your breath, mother. I won’t haggle. You’re not the only one who knows things.”

“A sign?”

“I’ve had dreams. And the birds… The birds are never wrong, you know that.” He sank down onto the seat.

The mistress waited for him to say more, but when he didn’t, she let it pass. “Come, Disa.” She sat down and Disa knelt before her. “I give you your freedom,” the mistress said. Then, as Disa settled beside her, “There. It’s done. I’ll have it proclaimed at the next Thing, if she lives that long.”

“Now tell her about my illness,” the jarl said. “Or should I do it?”

The mistress didn’t immediately speak. She gave him a long, withering look, and only after that did she begin. “My son spent four years in England. On the night of his return, he had a dream. He sensed a shadow fall over him as he lay in his bed. He began to grow tired and haggard. Then the illness began to affect his lands. Livestock died. A horse. Thralls. Guard dogs. Lately, even free men and women who have wandered out at night. And as his lands die, so does my son.”

The resiny pinewood in the fireplace crackled, and the mistress’ words came to a halt. The jarl looked as if he would add something, but she continued before he could do so.

“I have sat outside on an ox hide, and I have performed the seið repeatedly,” the mistress said, referring to the private and the public ways of receiving knowledge about the future. “And my son made a great sacrifice on the Álfablót: nine stallions, nine bulls, nine rams. The gods are not displeased with him, and neither are the dísir, or the landvættir.”

Disa gasped. If someone sacrificed like that on what was essentially a family occasion, what did they do for the more important feasts?

“Eight brides have been taken to my son’s bed,” the mistress said. “Eight corpses carried out of his chamber in the morning, to be given a pyre.”

“The first five came gladly, with the blessings of their families.” The jarl stared at the fire and wouldn’t look at Disa at all. “The sixth and seventh were as brave as shieldmaidens. The eighth wept. She knew she would die, but she hoped her death would put things right.”

“And now the peasants won’t give us their daughters,” the mistress said, her beautiful face disfigured by a grimace. “They fear it’ll never end. They threaten to bring it up at the next Thing. We can’t have that. That is why need you—”

“Give your answer tomorrow,” the jarl told Disa, interrupting his mother. “If you don’t want to risk your life, I’ll send you back to my sister.”

Disa bowed her head.

“Now leave,” he flicked his fingers. “Both of you,” he clarified, when the mistress didn’t move. “I wish to be alone.”

Disa turned around before the mistress opened the door. “You said I must be the last,” she said, addressing the jarl for the first time. “What will you do if I decline? Will there be another ninth bride?”

He had been watching the fire but at the sound of her voice he startled. She had a feeling this was the first time he really saw her. Or perhaps it was her voice that had shocked him. Like everyone else, he probably expected a woman of her size to sound like Hallfrid.

His lips parted and she was certain that he was about to blurt out something, but then he leaned back, retreating into the shadows. His long fingers moved, touching a thin chain around his neck. “I haven’t thought about it.”

It was obvious that he was lying, but she couldn’t figure out why. What was it he didn’t want his mother to know? 

She might have dared to ask, but then the mistress took hold of her arm, hard enough for it to hurt.

“Don’t stand there like a fool. You heard my son, let’s go.”

*

That night, Disa dreamed that she was standing at the edge of the forest. A lynx sat between the trees, its golden eyes shining in the half-light. It rose when it saw that it had her attention, and sauntered back into the forest. Compelled by something she didn’t understand, she followed it into the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary
> 
> Skald - a poet at the court of a king or noble. Their poetry detailed the deeds of their patron.
> 
> Mistress of Hel - The death goddess.
> 
> Much-knowing (fjǫlkunnigr) - to be much-knowing was to have knowledge of practices which we might term "magic" or "sorcery".
> 
> Thing (þing) - a governing assembly in early Germanic society, made up of the free men and presided over by lawspeakers/lawmen.
> 
> Seið - ritual practice to see or change the future using spirit helpers. Chiefly practised by women. Although men could do it, it was considered shameful for them to do so.
> 
> Landvættir - Spirits of the land. Sometimes translated as "wights".
> 
> Want to read more about this chapter? [Here](https://ceceril.dreamwidth.org/7047.html) is a companion piece.


	5. The Ninth Bride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a glossary in the end notes and also a link to a companion piece.
> 
> There's some violence in this chapter.

***

Disa woke up to find that Sigrid was gone. She was already getting out of bed when she remembered: tonight she would be the jarl’s bride and tomorrow morning she might be dead. She pulled up her feet again, hugging her knees as she took in the emptiness all around her. A cup stood by the hearth, together with someone’s half-eaten bowl of porridge. Not only was there no Sigrid, but there was no one at all. The house felt larger than it had last night. With no people around, the shadows seemed deeper, more imposing.

She was about to reach for her gown when something stirred in the darkness on the other side of the hearth fire. A looming shadow spilled over the floor, and Disa grabbed the edge of the blanket, about to hide behind it. The next moment, a woman built like a valkyrja stepped into the light. She stopped briefly, as if Disa were a frightened animal that needed to be approached with care. When Disa lowered the blanket, she closed the distance between them with long, sure strides and sat down on the bench by Disa’s side.

She was of Disa’s age, perhaps a few years older. Her square face was made more severe by the way her uncovered hair was tied tightly back from her forehead. Her nose and chin looked as if they belonged on a man’s face, but her grey eyes, outlined with soot, were luminous. She wore the clothes of a well-off matron, but nothing else about her suggested a married woman. Divorced, then? Or happily widowed?

“I’m Birsa, Thorbiorn’s daughter,” she said. She had a pleasant voice, not too high or too low. “The jarl’s smith’s sister.” When Disa didn’t speak, Birsa cocked her head to a side. “I mean you no harm! You speak our language, don’t you? We just want to talk to you, my brother and I.”

Disa cleared her throat, but her voice still came out as a croak. “Where’s the mistress?”

“You’ve agreed to marry him, haven’t you?”

Disa nodded, taken aback by her directness.

“Everyone said she’d bring a woman who was much-knowing this time. Are you?”

Disa shook her head.

“Gods, you’re a fool!” Birsa turned to dig through the blankets piled further down the bench, emerging with Disa’s gown and smokkr. “Get dressed. We need to talk and we shouldn’t do it here.” When Disa failed to move, she sighed, bunched up the gown and leaned in to drag it over Disa’s head. Disa tensed, and she stopped. “I mean you no harm. Do it yourself, just hurry.”

Disa dressed as fast as she could. There was no time to do anything about her hair; she adjusted her cap and hoped her plaits didn’t look too shabby. Birsa was already on her way. Her long hair fell from the top of her head like the tail of a mare: brown, shiny, and perfectly straight. It swung proudly as she walked, as if its owner was aware of the fact that no one would dare to touch it.

Stepping outside, Disa was blinded by the sunlight. Briefly, the world drowned in the red behind her eyelids. Then she opened her eyes, and for the first time, she saw Sunda clearly. In front of them, separated from the women’s house by smaller outbuildings, the jarl’s hall looked both more and less frightening than it had in the night. It was larger than she had realised. The middle of the building, the hall proper, stood taller than the gable ends, which were adorned with dragon heads, like the ones on raiding ships. Around the gate, animals had been carved, in a style that seemed very old. A tall tree stood by the west end, behind the hall, so that half of it was obscured. A warden tree, she guessed. Behind it were forested hills. More isles, perhaps, or the mainland.

The courtyard in front of the hall was empty, apart from a group of staring boys, younger than the ones who had lit the jarl’s table last night. There was no sign of the warriors, or their lord. But there were others. Disa sensed them looking at her as they made their way to the smithy: eyes peeping at her from behind doors and window shutters left ajar. There had been a time, long ago, when being stared at hadn’t bothered her, but now it made her feel naked. Hadn’t they looked their fill yesterday?

She followed Birsa all along the length of the hall, then beyond it, past the stables, barns, and workshops at this end. The smithy lay so far from the the hall it was like its own farm, together with the large house that sat at a safe distance behind it. Inside, they found the smith working with two apprentices. If he’d noticed that someone had entered, he didn’t show it, but kept hammering away at a piece of metal still red and alive from the forge. Disa watched, forgetting her own worries, until the smith left the apprentices to finish off and turned around. For a moment, it was as if he’d stepped on a spot of ice and lost his balance. Then he regained his composure so quickly Disa almost wasn’t sure if it had happened at all. He removed his gloves and wiped his ruddy face on a piece of cloth that had been tucked away in his leather apron.

“Biarni,” Birsa said, her voice level. “I found the black-haired girl. Join us for a meal?”

He didn’t reply at first, only stared at Disa without speaking. Though his hair was curly and his face rounder than his sister’s, the resemblance was obvious. 

“The boys’ll manage on their own for a while.” Birsa’s eyes widened, as if she were trying to convey something she couldn’t say out loud.

Biarni still said nothing, but he removed his apron and obediently followed them into the house next door. Disa had expected more of the gloom she’d seen in the hall and in the women’s house, but to her surprise, the smith’s house was tidy, with fresh rushes on the floor and a well-made hearth. From the rafters hung bunches of dried herbs that added a sweet, green freshness to the usual homely smells of cooking and fish oil. It seemed the jarl valued the man who kept his warriors armed, for the house was like the hall of a minor chieftain.

“Sit down.” Birsa motioned towards the benches along one of the walls. She began to stir the contents of the pot that hung over the fire. “I’ll heat the porridge.”

Biarni remained standing. Disa didn’t know what to make of him. Was he slow?

“My brother isn’t dumb, even though it may seem so,” Birsa said, still busy with the porridge. “His name, as I’m sure you heard, is Biarni. What’s yours? I don’t think I’ve asked you yet.”

“It’s Disa.”

“Really? I thought it would be something more foreign.”

Disa was saved from having to think of a reply when Biarni spoke. “I’m the smith,” he said, producing a lopsided grin.

He was the first person who’d smiled at her since she’d left Nes. She almost smiled back. Even so, he left plenty of room between them, when he joined her on the bench. It was as if something about her still unsettled him.

“What else would you be,” Birsa said and snickered. She leaned in to tousle his curls, as if they’d been brothers, rather than brother and sister. “You big fool.”

Nothing more was said until they'd finished their porridge, which Birsa had topped with dollops of butter and a little fortifying fish oil from the barrel by the door.

“Did you know,” she said, as Disa scraped the last remains from her bowl, “that our sister was the first bride?”

Disa hadn’t.

“Her name was Hrafnhild. She’d always been sweet on him. She was much-knowing, just as I am, and as our mother was, but it wasn’t enough.”

“She lasted two nights,” Biarni said quietly.

Birsa gathered the bowls and stacked them on the hearth stones in front of her. “She was a spoiled little bikkja.” She sniffled, then wiped her nose on the back of her hand. “Our little sister, our Hildi. She’d survived all the illnesses of childhood and I thought her safe! Then I had to prepare her for the pyre, just two nights after her wedding. How’s that fair?”

Biarni patted her arm.

“I went away,” Birsa said, brushing off her brother’s feeble attempt to comfort her. She was the sort of woman who wore her grief with pride; who would never be weakened by it. Someone, Disa knew, whom she would never be able to handle as easily as she had Hallfrid and Astrid. “I couldn’t stay, or I’d kill him myself. I returned when I learned that the mistress was on her way back with the woman who’d save us. And now you tell me you’re just another bride? You’re not much-knowing?”

Disa shook her head. “I can’t sing galdrar or speak strong words,” she declared, as if she were making the opposite of a boast. “I can’t seið or spá.”

Birsa gnawed on her lower lip. “But you’re something, aren’t you? The mistress wouldn’t have gone all the way back to her own farm to fetch you for the sake of those big, dark elk-eyes of yours. You’re a foreigner, you must have some sort of knowledge that we haven't. Do you have healer’s hands? Leechcraft?”

“No. Not really. But I cared for the mistress’ daughter, and it’s been said I was her good fate.”

“You nursed his sister? That’s a strong bond. We could work with that—”

“I didn’t nurse her.” Disa crossed her arms over her bosom. “I was her tooth gift.”

“You’re a thrall?” Disa didn’t like how Birsa wrinkled her nose, though she would no doubt have reacted similarly. Before.

“The mistress freed me. The jarl wouldn’t have me if I wasn’t free to choose.”

“That sounds just like him,” Biarni said. “Did you hear that?” he asked his sister. “He’s still a good man.”

“A good man who’s cursed and no longer himself. Or I swear by the Lady – the Lady of the Slain, who mows down men like grass when she comes riding on her battle boar – I would have taken your axe and demanded vengeance for Hildi myself.”

They stared at each other until Biarni looked away, blushing.

“You really want to go through with it?” Birsa asked Disa. “Marry him, I mean? We could go and see the mistress. Maybe she’ll let you get out, and I’ll marry the bastard in your place. He’ll hate me for it and it’ll serve him right.”

“I’ll marry him,” Disa replied, unnerved by the offer. “I said I’d do it and I will.”

“So you want to die then, do you? You want to be dead and black come morning?”

“I won’t be,” Disa replied, refusing to be cowed. “I know how to save him.”

There was silence. Then Biarni drew a sharp breath, like a whistle, and Birsa laughed. “You’re a feisty one! So you have something, then.”

“I have my wits. Where I’m from, that’s enough.”

“I’m sure it is, but you’re very far from home now. Look, as we all want the same thing, we might as well work together. Your wits and my knowledge; what do you say?” Biarni placed his hand on his sister’s shoulder when she held out her hand for Disa to take, as if he were a part of her offer.

Trust was always a gamble, even more so now. But did she really have a choice? Disa accepted Birsa’s hand. “I was told he had troll blood that he succumbs to at night.”

Biarni gasped. “The jarls of Sunda are wolves in battle, they’ve always been! Do you understand? They’re hamr-strong, not wicked hamr leapers who can take any shape they want. And they’re certainly not like those cursed creatures who change shape against their will.”

Disa should have been frightened by such a big man raising his voice at her, but there was something helpless about him rallying to his master’s defence. The way in which he immediately blushed and wiped at his mouth as if the words that had come out had sullied him filled her with involuntary pity.

But Birsa shook her head at him. “For shame, Biarni. You’re more worked up about her speaking ill about the man who killed our sister than you were about the killing itself.”

He groaned. “I’m not. That’s not what I said.”

“I know perfectly well what you said.” She turned to Disa, but not so much that she wasn’t still talking to Biarni too. “Something walks at night. Something that isn’t human, or it wouldn’t be deterred by closed doors.” She produced a terse grin. “We’re safe as long as we stay inside, but it makes him waste away.”

Disa was touching her own throat before she could control herself. She hurried to fold her hands in her lap. “Because there’s nothing for him to eat?”

“It looks that way, doesn’t it? Everything was locked up last night, but something still scared the horses. I heard them, poor things. I tell you, his body might still be indoors, sleeping, but his hugr leaves his body and wanders about all over the place. In the hamr of a bloodthirsty beast, it kills everything it encounters.”

Biarni’s face was stricken, but Birsa continued unabated. “Hildi was awake all of the first night. And the second. But she died on the third. She must have fallen asleep, and then he couldn’t help himself and he strangled her before sending his hugr out for something to eat.” She let her words sink in for a moment. “I’m telling you, he strangled her with his bare hands. I saw her neck when I washed her.”

Biarni made a sound. When Disa turned to him, she saw that his face was white and his hands trembling. Birsa reached for him. She took his hands, but the shaking had spread, and soon his entire body was being wracked.

“Go now,” she told Disa. “Just go!”

Disa stumbled to her feet.

“I’m sorry.” Birsa’s voice was hushed as she tried to calm her brother. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I didn’t mean to.”

Disa hurried outside, but though she could escape the confines of the house, she couldn’t get away from her own fears. Not even the knowledge of the unseen eyes watching her could make her return to the gloom of indoors. She decided to stay out as long as she could, but knew it wouldn’t be very long at all. The sun was already slanting, on its way down before being close to the highest point.

She kept walking, all the way back to the women’s house, then past it and round the corner of the hall to see what lay on the other side. She found more storage houses and smaller buildings related to the kitchens. Nearby, thrall women were busy filling a cooking pit, their hands as raw and red as the meat. They stopped working to stare at her. Other thralls unnerved her. The ones at Nes had hated her more than they hated their owners. No wonder; they’d been beasts of burden and she a little girl’s pampered pet. But these women knew nothing about her, save that she didn’t look like someone who’d ever done hard labour. She must have passed for a free woman, for they said nothing, only lowered their heads and returned to their work. She hurried past them.

From behind, without the gradual slope on the other side, the hall looked smaller. The doors on this side weren’t even decorated. It was simply a big house. Or, it might have been. At the other end of the hall from where she stood, a palisade enclosed an area outside the jarl’s chamber; the row of timber posts as forbidding as a host of dark-cloaked warriors. And behind it, the land fell away into a hollow. There was a well, and beyond it a wetland. The cold must really gather there. It was white with frost and there were still shreds of mist over the reeds. A few feet out into the water, tall poles stood speared into the ground. They were crowned with horse heads that had been reduced almost entirely to bone, with the tails hanging below.

Disa stared at them until her feet went numb from the cold and the skulls in front of her had turned mockingly into girls’ heads. When a crow settled on the freshest to pick away what flesh was left, she ran.

*

That night, Disa was transformed into a jarl’s bride. Had this been a normal wedding, it would have been a happy occasion. Instead, Disa was stiff and silent as the women handled her the way they would have a corpse being readied for its final journey, as if she were something unclean they didn’t really want to touch. They had put her in a thin shift and had just finished untangling her damp hair when the mistress entered.

“Leave us,” she told the women. Splendidly dressed in a blue gown and carrying her staff, she looked like the Lady herself. “My son sends you clothes and jewellery,” she told Disa as soon as they were alone. “Remember that. You came here naked. Everything you’ll wear, he’s given you.”

A maidservant stepped forward and placed a casket on one of the benches. The mistress opened it to reveal gold and silver, gems and glass. It shone in the lamplight, the gleam of the flames reflected in the metal and bringing the smooth shapes of the jewels alive. Disa was still staring at the treasure when another maid placed the red garments of a queen next to it: a bright red gown, and a darker, blood-coloured smokkr.

Eight brides had worn this finery. They had been queens for a night or two, then died.

When Disa didn’t move, the mistress took matters into her own hands. “Nothing died for almost a week after the first one,” she said as she picked up the red gown. “He didn’t recover, so I thought she’d been a bad choice. Other girls offered themselves and I chose a prettier one, then a healthier one, then a stronger one. Some lived for days. Others only lasted one night. But my son grows worse and nothing helps. I’ve asked, and asked again, and the reply is always the same: a bride will cure my son.”

It sounded as if she were talking to herself, so Disa didn’t reply. She allowed herself to be dressed. The gauzy shift she wore did little to protect her skin from the gown, which was stiff with embroideries. Where had it come from? England, perhaps. Some place where it would have been worn without anything on top, or it wouldn’t have been so lavishly embellished. The silk-trimmed, long-trained smokkr was too long for her. One of the maidservants had to hem it. She did it quickly, not too careful. After all, Disa would only wear it once.

It was a heavy garment, even before the mistress added the brooches and strung beads and coins between them. And once the bracelets and necklaces had been added, enough to provide gifts for a small army of girls that were to help undress her for the bedding, she felt weighted down. Like a little girl playing wedding.

Finally, the mistress plaited and arranged Disa’s still damp hair before she tied a linen veil to it. She stepped back to study her creation and nodded to herself, then fetched two small pots. She painted Disa’s eyes with soot from one of them, then put the red from the other on Disa’s lips.

“There you are,” she said and cupped Disa’s face in her hand. “You’re as pretty as you’re ever going to be. Your dark skin I can do nothing about, but then again, some men like that. Just remember to keep your mouth shut and don’t grate on him with that mannish voice of yours.” Disa remained silent, but her meekness only served to annoy the mistress. Her fingers clamped around Disa’s jaw. “You think you’re so superior now you’re going to bed my son, don’t you?” Her voice quivered. There were tears in her eyes. “As if you’re good enough for him; as if anyone is!”

Disa could feel her own pulse beat against the grip. She had to resist the urge to gasp for breath or try to free herself. She shut her eyes in an attempt to show her submission.

“You’ll do everything you can to save him,” the mistress said, having calmed down. “If I find you’ve been deceiving us, I’ll have the men break your spine over a rock before I string you up in the warden tree myself. Do you understand?”

She held on until Disa managed something that resembled a nod. When she let go, Disa’s legs collapsed underneath her.

The mistress grimaced. “There’s no time for that. This is no place for weaklings.” She dragged Disa to her feet, pulled down the veil to cover her face, and led her to the door.

It seemed everyone at Sunda had gathered in the courtyard, waiting for the latest bride to make her way to the hall and her bridegroom. Above them, the nearly full moon had risen. The crowd parted as the mistress stepped out. Disa followed, two steps behind. She felt as if she weren’t even in her body anymore, as if some part of her had stayed behind in the women’s house. The veil helped; it made her see everything through a milky haze.

She would have made it to the hall maintaining the perfect serenity of a willing sacrifice, but the crowd closed around her. One moment it was just hands hovering around her, barely daring to touch her dress, her jewellery, her hair through the veil. The next, something warm splattered her cheek, turning the white linen red and filling her nostrils with its scent. Something hit her chest, then fell to the ground. She cried out and tore the veil from her face, gagging. Between her and the mistress, a beheaded cockerel ran in circles, unaware of the fact that it was already dead.

The mistress kicked it away. “My son is the jarl, your lord,” she told the crowd. Her voice was soft, but there was enough steel in it that everyone backed away, leaving a space around her and Disa. “We’ll manage without your delightful peasant customs, but thank you all the same.”

She used the clean part of the veil to wipe Disa’s face, then made her turn around to display her as the chieftain might have done, daring the people of Sunda to gorge themselves on her dark skin and foreign features.

“Such a strange, pretty little creature,” Disa heard a woman whispered. “Poor thing.”

“Would you rather it be one of your daughters?” another replied. “No, I thought not.”

“See what a priceless treasure I’ve brought you,” the mistress said, and her voice filled the courtyard. Something settled on Disa’s shoulders. It was the mistress’ own mantle, quickly fastened onto the brooches on Disa’s chest. “A bride descended from the eastern kings, a Serkland maiden without a single drop of peasant blood in her veins. That is how much I love my son. That is how much the safety of my people matters to me. I tell you, she’s the good fate that will break the curse and save us all.”

The ornate words – strong words, but were they strong enough to change the course of her son’s fate? – made Disa burst out into nervous giggles. She restrained herself. She scanned the faces all around her, but it seemed they were all too enthralled by the mistress to notice anything amiss. They had been appeased, even awed.

The mistress leaned over her. “And now we keep going,” she breathed. “Before they get confused again.” 

They entered the hall through the kitchen door, as was customary. The eve of her wedding was the first time a high-born wife walked the mead-path from the kitchen to the high seat. Disa stopped on the threshold for a moment, then said a silent prayer and stepped over it. The few girls still in the kitchen stared at her, but averted their eyes when she wouldn't look away. She continued into a corridor and passed along a closed door, then the open one of a room that still smelled of hot, recently smoothed cloth. 

She crossed another threshold and left the women’s side of the house behind as she entered the hall proper. She wished she were still wearing the veil. The people of Sunda had filled the hall, and without the extra layer between her and the rest of the world, she felt exposed. Too soon, she reached the other end of the hall, and the mistress moved aside.

In front of her, the wooden gods had been taken out of their usual dwelling place, warmed by the fire, and arranged in and around the high seat. Though this was a wedding, neither the God of Thunder nor the grotesquely well-endowed Lord had the pride of place. Instead, it was the warriors’ god, the Spear-God, who sat enthroned in the high seat.

The jarl stood in front of his god, surrounded by a handful of his men. Though his hair was still too long and his poor excuse of a beard still ridiculous, he was elegantly dressed in a red silk mantle and tunic, and dark trousers that were fitted to his slim legs. A silver bracelet gleamed on his left wrist, drawing her attention to his hands. They were strong hands, with long fingers. They’d closed around the necks of eight girls, and soon they would do the same to hers. She forced the thought away. To be weak now, when true test of her abilities was only about to begin, would be to give up. And she had never been one to do that.

She closed the distance between them, and stood at his side. She’d forgotten – or simply failed to grasp – how tall he really was. She was facing his chest, and had to tilt her head back to look up at that strange, angular face. He studied her for a moment, then leaned over her, one cold hand cupping her chin as his yellow eyes made her feel like a sparrow about to become a hawk’s meal. He frowned, before licking the thumb of his other hand to wipe away something on her cheekbone. When his thumb came away red, her breath faltered, until she remembered the cockerel. 

Someone said something, but Disa wasn’t paying attention. The jarl clasped her hand. His skin was rough, and the rings on his fingers hung loose. She jerked instinctively, but his fingers had already gripped hers. There was an old man standing in front of them. She hadn’t noticed him before. He spoke again, and wrapped a length of linen cloth around their joined hands. Then he spoke the binding words and blessed them. There was nothing more. They didn’t make Disa light the fire in the hearth, or give her a spindle to start spinning a thread that would one day become a shirt for her new husband. 

After a short, miserable feast during which neither bride nor groom ate anything, the mistress and her women led Disa to the jarl’s chambers. The keys of the lady of the house still hung from her girdle, jangling against her hip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Valkyrja - Literally chooser of the slain. A shieldmaiden loyal to Óðinn, who brought dead warriors to his hall, valhǫll.
> 
> Warden tree (vårdträd/tuntre) - tree tied to the "guardian spirit" of a farm.
> 
> Bikkja - Bitch.
> 
> Seið - ritual practice to see or change the future using spirit helpers. Chiefly practised by women. Although men could do it, it was considered shameful for them to do so.
> 
> Spá - to foretell the future.
> 
> The Lady of the Slain (Valfreyja) - Freyja as a goddess of war and death, who had the right to pick half of the fallen warriors from the battlefield.
> 
> Battle boar (Hildisvíni) - Freya's boar.
> 
> Hugr - the "essence" of someone, combining aspects of personality, thought, wish, and desire. People with a strong hugr could extend their influence beyond their own body, and even make it leave the body. It seems to have had an aura that some people could perceive. Hugr could also be used metaphorically to refer to someone's mood or character.
> 
> Hamr - meaning skin/hide or outer garment. The body's physical form, the shell that held the other aspects of the self together. It was also the name of the temporary shape of the hugr in someone who had let their hugr leave their body. The hamr is what changed when someone shape-shifted (skipta hǫmum, or hamask).
> 
> Hamr-strong (hamrammr) - the most common word for someone who was able to shape-shift. No magic was needed for this, it was merely seen as a personal trait.
> 
> Hamr-leaper (hamhleypa) - another word for someone able to change their shape. Someone who could let their hugr leap into a temporary hamr. It is a less common word, typically associated with magic-users.
> 
> Mead-path (medo-stīg) - This is actually an Old English expression, from Beowulf, where it denotes the path to the mead-hall that the lady of the house walks to serve mead to the guests.
> 
> God of Thunder - also the Earth's Son, the Master of the Goats, etc. The god þórr, the protector of the ordered world against the forces of chaos. 
> 
> (the) Lord - the god Freyr. He was Freyja's brother and associated with such things as sacral kingship, fertility, and the harvest.
> 
> Biarni - Little bear (from biǫrn, bear).
> 
> Birsa - Little she-bear (from biǫrn, bear).
> 
> Hrafnhild - From hrafn, meaning raven and -hild, meaning battle.
> 
> Want to read more about this chapter? There's a companion post [here](https://ceceril.dreamwidth.org/7250.html#cutid1) .


	6. The Storyteller

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** There's some sexual unpleasantness (non-consensual touching and things) in this chapter. To avoid, skip to the sentence "The door closed behind them."
> 
> **Trivia:** This chapter mentions a [bimodal](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Biphasic_and_polyphasic_sleep#Historical_norm) sleeping pattern that was probably the norm during the long northern winters: two periods of sleep (first and second sleep) divided by a period of being awake.
> 
> See the end notes for a glossary and a link to a companion post .

**PART THREE – The First Night**

***

“You’re no girl,” the mistress said once the women – strangers still, without names to go with their faces – had stripped Disa to her shift and wiped the paint from her face. “How old are you?”

They’d thrown hvonn seeds on the hottest part of the hearth to sweeten the air. Disa watched the smoke. It was almost impossible not to let her thoughts drift along with it; to rise higher and higher, and leave her body behind. 

She blinked when she registered that the mistress was speaking to her. “I think I was eighteen or nineteen when I came to Nes.”

“That was when my daughter had her first tooth. So you’re older than the others. You’re his age. But you’re so small and you’ve led such an easy life.” She studied Disa closely, circling her as she had when Disa was first decked out in the red wedding garments. The next moment she wasn’t just looking. Her touch was like her gaze – pure ice – stealing the last warmth from Disa’s skin through the cobweb sheerness of the shift. Next, it wasn’t just her fingers, but her hands: prodding and squeezing like a man might. Or no, not like that at all. Like a prospective buyer handling a brood mare. “You could pass for a maid of fifteen, sixteen, as long as you keep your mouth shut. He won’t even notice, men never do.”

The sound of steps approaching silenced her; she grabbed hold of Disa’s plait. Disa wound her arms tighter about herself. 

“It’s the master, mistress,” one of the women said. She approached the mistress wearily, her head held so low she might as well have been crawling on her belly like a cowed bitch. 

The mistress wound Disa’s plait around her hand. She made her turn around to face the entrance. “Let him in.”

A girl opened the door and the jarl stepped into the light, still resplendent in his wedding finery. For a moment, the men behind him were just shadows, and there was only him: bright as a bullfinch’s breast – bright as rosehips – against the dark. 

Then the spell was broken as the hirdmen gathered around him, followed by the torch-bearing boys. There was an air of excitement around them, Disa thought, blinking against the bright light. As if they were a party of night-fishers, and she the poor creature about to be speared.

The mistress wound more and more of Disa’s plait around her hand, forcing Disa’s back into an arch, putting her body on display. Though the jarl barely glanced at his mother’s offering, his men took their time. A youth let out an almost animal sound of hunger. Disa closed her eyes.

When the mistress let go, Disa almost fell. 

“Undress the bride,” the mistress commanded.

The women hesitated. Disa never learned if they would have obeyed. Before they could do anything, the jarl spoke.

“No,” he said.

The mistress turned towards him.

“I meant,” the jarl continued, his tone aloof, not to be questioned, “as she’s mine now, I should be the one to do it. And I don’t care for onlookers.”

Just as in a nightmare, Disa experienced how time and her thoughts travelled differently, so that she didn’t immediately understand that the keening she heard came from her own lips. Then the mistress slapped her and she fell to the floor. She remained there as the jarl spoke again, louder this time, and the mistress herded everyone outside.

The door closed behind them. Disa lifted her arms to hide her face as the jarl’s shadow fell over her. She curled up tighter.

She waited, but he didn’t drag her to her feet or throw himself on her. Instead, he walked away, then returned again. 

“I won’t touch you,” he said. His voice was calm, bordering on cold. “I said what I said to make my mother leave. I have as much appetite for _that_ as I have for food or drink. That is to say, none at all.”

She looked at him from between her fingers. There was a cloak in his hands: a dark, everyday garment. He crouched at her side, his miles and miles of legs folding like those of a frog as he did so. He covered her with the cloak, then reached for her face, just as he had in the hall. 

“You’re bleeding.”

This time the blood was her own, and she couldn’t bear his touch. When she curled up tighter, he lowered his arm. He didn’t speak, but remained motionless, with his hands in his lap.

The worst of the fear passed. If she wanted to survive and get her reward, Disa knew that she needed to stay alert. Never letting her eyes leave his face, she sat up, wrapped herself in the cloak, and began to mentally assess her body. There was nothing wrong with her feet, her lower legs, her knees, her thighs. But her hip ached from where she’d hit the floor, and her left hand stung. Her head hurt, a pain that was dull and laced with nausea. 

She could taste blood; she’d bitten her lip as she fell. The rest of the blood was on the back of her hand. Had the mistress hit her twice? Was it one of her rings that had done this?

“Will you let me care for it?” The jarl asked. Now that everyone had left, the room was so cold she could see his breath as he spoke.

She shook her head.

He rose. He kept his hands in front of him, the palms towards her. “Then I’m going to fetch a few things and let you do it for yourself.”

He went to ransack one of the larger chests at the other end of the room. The sight and smell of her own blood kept Disa’s heart beating fast even when he wasn’t close by.

He returned with a blanket, some dried white moss, and cloth torn into bandages. He placed it next to her. “You’ll need some water, too.”

Disa watched him pour some from a jug into a small bowl. When he approached her again, she backed away. She couldn’t help it.

“I won’t harm you,” he said, but she thought his gaze lingered on the blood. The Spear-God’s wolf warriors were said to shift in the heat of battle. Would her blood have the same effect? He’d been keen enough on the cockerel blood before, hadn’t he?

He put the bowl and a small pot with the bandages next to her, then went to sit by the hearth. This time, the distance between them was enough to calm her a little.

She tore off a bit of the bandages and cleaned her wound. It would stop bleeding soon; she wouldn’t need the moss. She smelled the contents of the pot. There was nothing suspicious about it. She’d used similar healing salves before. She smeared some on the wound before adding a bandage.

Only now, once she’d seen to the worst damage, did she notice how cold she was. She put the blanket over her hair and shoulders, as if it had been a shawl.

"Come here and warm yourself," the jarl said. "Your lips are blue."

She stayed put. A man like him could never be trusted. In offering to tend to her wound, he’d only made her acutely aware of exactly what he was: not just any wolf warrior, but – being a lord – someone who was meant to emulate his god in every way. A god who was a skald, wise man, healer, warlord, and deceiver. A god who was what her mother had called a daeva: a lying, evil being not to be worshipped.

But to survive, she needed to keep her strength and play along. She rose. Her legs still carried her. She went to stand on the other side of the fire from him. She wouldn’t sit down.

“Why does my mother dislike you so?” the jarl asked. A frown creased his wide forehead. She noticed that he wore a circlet around his head: a twisted ribbon of red gold, like a girl’s fillet. It was almost the same colour as his hair. “Her behaviour – which I’m sorry about – wasn’t just about my disobedience.”

The question confused her at first, but if he could pretend that they were just two people having an everyday conversation, then so could she.

“She wanted your stepfather’s foster daughter, lord.” Her voice started out shaky, but quickly returned to normal. She was cold and she wanted to lie down somewhere safe to sleep, but she pretended to be in control of herself. “I asked her to take me instead.”

“Astrid’s already betrothed. Mother says the man’s a kinsman of ours.”

“Not Astrid, lord. Her sister.”

“What, the little one? But she’s just a child, isn’t she? I got the impression she was my sister’s age, and her playmate.”

“She’s almost fourteen.”

He seemed to struggle with the thought before he changed the subject. “You offered yourself? Why?”

“It’s as your mother said. Men aren’t the only ones to gamble.”

She saw the muscles in his cheeks move under the scant cover of flesh. He had his mother’s broad cheekbones tapering into a pointy chin. But the jaw was strong. “I see. And I thought she’d forced you.”

“She didn’t need to.”

They stared at each other for a long moment. Then he rubbed his eyes. “I’m too tired for this.”

Disa studied the bed. The blankets were turned down and the sheet was scattered with herbs. She wasn’t able to suppress the shudder that ran through her.

He noticed. “I don’t eat maidens,” he said, his voice sounding like a sigh. “Whatever you may have heard.”

She turned to face him, away from the white sheet. “I’m not a maiden,” she said. What did he expect? She was a thrall, after all.

His expression remained unreadable. “I don’t eat women, either. And I don’t force myself on them.”

He was still seated. The bench looked so comfortable, with plump cushions placed over a reindeer hide. There was something lying next to him: a gaming board.

“Do you play tafl?” he asked as he noticed her watching.

She shook her head.

“Dice, then?”

She shook her head again. She hadn’t played since she left the east.

“Then how will we pass the time?”

She shrugged. Underneath the cloak, she widened her stance, standing firm.

He had to be devious. A follower of his god, and his mother’s son. He would have been brought up to value trickery and deceit. And to master it.

“I won’t force myself on you,” he said. “But you have to entertain me, because I don’t sleep. Do you understand? I _must not sleep_.”

“What, never?” she asked. Then, because she sounded so uncourteous, she added, “lord.”

“Not at night. It doesn’t mean you can’t. So, do you sing?”

It took her a moment to react, as her thoughts were still caught up with making sense of what he’d told her.

The idea of someone asking her to sing was risible. Was he stupid? Was he making fun of her? At this point, he’d have heard enough of her low, husky voice to know she was no sweet-singing blackbird.

“Not pleasantly,” she said dryly.

“Then what can you do?”

She almost cried out with relief. This was her chance. This was when she would play the Shirazad to his evil king and earn her reward. “The women at Nes enjoyed my stories.” She didn’t dare to look him in the eye, for fear that he’d see through her. She lowered her gaze and tried to make herself the very image of a subservient little woman. “Perhaps you would, too?”

She needn’t have worried. When she shot him a quick glance from under her lashes, she saw him run his fingers along his jaw. He didn’t seem at all averse to the idea. “Only if it’s something I haven’t heard before.”

She didn’t think that would be too hard. “A story from Serkland, lord? Would that please you?”

He seemed as thrilled by the rarity of such a thing as everyone else. Perhaps his eyes gleamed a little too brightly, but at least she had his interest. “It would indeed please me. But sit down, sit down! Take the other seat if you don’t want to sit too close to me. Have some mead and something to eat. I won’t be a poor host, even like this.”

She did as she was told and poured herself a cup of mead from a pitcher standing next to a plate of oat cakes by the bed. The pitcher, like the cup, was made of delicate glass, as sheer as the first growth of ice on the lakes in autumn. There were strands of gold woven into the rim. No one at Nes had such lovely things.

She would have lovely things too, if only she managed to survive this. She closed her eyes. 

_Mother, help me do whatever it is he wants from me!_ she prayed. _Help me please him and keep him at bay._

She gulped down the contents of her cup before refilling it. The mead was good and strong. She knew she shouldn’t drink too much. Just enough to gain some courage, not enough to make her careless or needing to go outside.

She poured a second cup and forced herself to go to the other side of the hearth. Before she handed it to him, she took a sip, as was customary. He accepted the cup gracefully and brought it to his lips. Then he simply cradled it. His hands didn’t shake now, and his nails were clean and trimmed short. He looked almost normal. 

She sat down and drank some more. 

“There,” he said, and though he wasn’t smiling, his voice was pleasant. He had a good voice. Unlike her, he probably could sing. “That’s put some colour back on your cheeks. Go and get the oat cakes, too. You take them; I won’t have any.”

She ate half of one and washed it down with more mead to steady her nerves. Then she swept the blanket tighter around her shoulders and seated herself carefully on the bench opposite his, with the fire as a barrier between them. It occurred to her that they made for an exceedingly odd couple: he in red silk worthy of a king, and she wrapped up like a crone at a market.

She had no way of knowing what sort of story he wanted without asking him, and she didn’t want to test his patience just yet. She settled on a story Sigrid and the girls had favoured. 

“Do you want to hear the one about the fisherman and the jinni, lord?” Every muscle in her body was rigid; she didn’t even dare to let her stockinged feet peep out of the cloak to catch some of the warmth. 

“I would if I knew what a jinni was.”

“It’s a creature. Like a huldra. Or a troll, perhaps.”

“Tell me.” He reached for his cloak. Swept up in it, he seemed less intimidating. He might have been any young man if it hadn’t been for the quality of the cloth and the heavy silver ring brooch attached to it. The brooch on the cloak she was wearing was just a small thing: a clumsily shaped raven.

Disa took another mouthful of mead and focused her thoughts. The words came easily, from much practice. “There was an old fisherman,” she began. Her back straightened. She would never be a singer, or be able to entertain men with pillow talk, but she was a born storyteller. “He was very, very poor…”

She told him how the fisherman found a jinni in a bottle, and how the jinni, trapped for hundreds of years, had decided to reward its saviour with death. She told the stories entangled in the greater story: the one the fisherman had told the jinni as he tricked him back into the bottle, and the story an ensorcelled young prince had told the king once the fishes the jinni had rewarded the fisherman with had freed him from a curse.

She told the tale in great detail, not skimming it the way she did for the girls. The jarl listened without ever interrupting. When, at last, she reached the end – the fisherman’s two daughters marrying the prince and the king – her throat was dry and she was cold again. 

“So wits conquered might,” the jarl said. He’d transformed during the story. At the beginning he’d sat sprawled like most men did, with his legs wide apart, as if to take up as much space as possible. But as he focused his interest on her, it seemed even his body had narrowed down. By now he’d crossed his legs at the knees and sat leaning forward, chin in hand, staring at her face far too intently for her to be comfortable. “I mean the jinni; how stupid of him to let himself be tricked like that.”

“He didn’t think he had much to fear from a fisherman, lord. And like so many who are big and powerful, he was fooled by flattery. He was willing to show the man he could fit into a tiny bottle, without thinking that the man might lock him in again.”

He gave her an odd glance and she wondered if she’d said too much, but he changed the subject. “Your cup is dry. I hear people about again. The first sleep has ended; let’s take advantage of it to get someone to bring us something more to drink.”

He unfolded his long limbs, stretched until something popped in his shoulders or back, then went to the door.

*

Once the serving boys had come and gone, she drank. It was small ale this time, for which she was grateful. She wouldn’t have dared to drink another cup of strong mead.

“The story,” the jarl asked her as she wiped her mouth. He’d barely touched his own drink, but kept swirling it around in the cup. His lips looked so dry and chapped he probably didn’t drink much at all, ever. “Is it from the same place as you?”

She considered his question and how to reply without telling him too much, or lying. “What people in the north call Serkland is really many lands, lord. My mother heard it in the house of her first husband. Which is far from where she was born. Or I.”

“It seems these creatures are the same the world over; always ready to be outwitted by gods and men. Have you heard the one where the Master of the Goats – the God of Thunder – came home to find that a troll was about to marry his daughter?”

“I’ve heard it the way they tell it at Nes,” she said cautiously.

“Then, perhaps, you’ll allow me to offer you a tale in exchange for yours? Unless you’ve reconsidered, and decided you do want a game of tafl?”

Was he really about to trade stories with her? It wasn’t how she’d planned this at all, but she couldn’t tell him that this wasn’t how the great Shirazad had done things, so she forced her tired mouth into what she hoped looked like a smile and nodded. “I’d be honoured.”

He was quiet for a heartbeat, sat up straighter, and then began. It was a poem, recited exactly the way he’d once learned it, verse by verse. She listened, following the rhythm of it; the clever way in which words could mean one thing or another; the way the sentences were woven together, like the beasts on a piece of carved wood. 

He spoke softly and perfectly clear, without the need to be loud to be heard. He had the sort of voice that made you want to lean in closer to make sure you didn’t miss a word. She found herself enjoying it far more than she should. 

The jarl might be an ugly man, but he had a beautiful voice. And he knew how to use it. 

She was grateful for the fire between them.

His version of the story was much longer than the one she’d heard before. Several verses were new, and others were slightly altered. But the ending was the same. Through entertaining the troll with a clever game of riddles, the God of Thunder made it forget itself, and so by the time dawn came, the sunlight killed it.

“Sunlight won’t kill me,” the jarl said, and took a sip from his cup. From their deep hollows, his eyes reflected the flames. It was the only colour in his still, white face. “I know you’ll have heard that ridiculous old tale of the troll blood, but it’s all slander, so you don’t need to try that.”

She licked her dry lips. “Of course not.”

Neither of them spoke. She was gripped by a sudden fear that he might tell her more about the curse and the dead brides: the things she simply couldn’t bear to listen to just now. She’d spent all her courage for one night. It was best to resort to Shirazad’s tactics again.

“Another story?” she asked meekly, lowering her gaze in submission.

“Another story,” he agreed and resumed his listening pose on the other side of the fire. He was watching her with an almost unblinking intensity, and she had no idea what he was seeing.

But, as always, telling a story calmed her and made her feel in control. She told him the one about the enchanted horse and the king. She added every flourish she knew to make it last as long as she could. She had barely finished by the time the boys knocked on the door.

Dawn had come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hvonn - Angelica (Angelica archangelica), a sweetly scented, edible plant native to northern Eurasia. The English name was too Christian, so I used the Old Norse one. 
> 
> Daeva - an Avestan (an early Iranian language, the language of Zoroastrian scripture) term for a sort of evil supernatural entity. According to Zoroastrian belief, they were gods that were to be rejected.
> 
> Tafl (or hnefatafl) - board game. 
> 
> Jinni - A supernatural being in pre-Islamic and later Islamic mythology. It's neither wholly good or bad. The collective noun is Jinn.
> 
> Huldra - Seductive and mischievous forest creature in Scandinavian folklore.
> 
> There's a companion post about how I wrote this chapter [here](https://ceceril.dreamwidth.org/7467.html).


	7. Ravens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please refer to the end notes for a glossary and a companion post .

***

The door slid open to reveal a couple of serving boys standing close together, peering inside. Disa was still so caught up in her story she didn’t immediately remember the reason for their behaviour: that they were expecting carnage.

“We’ll get the girls, lord,” one of the boys said, his adolescent voice breaking into a squeak. The other just stared at Disa and was almost toppled by his comrade, who turned to leave as soon as he’d finished speaking. A moment later, they were both gone.

Disa felt stiff and cold from sitting all night. The fire had almost gone out.

“I apologise for the state of my household,” the jarl said as he stood and rubbed the back of his neck. “The last months have been trying for everyone.”

“I imagine it has,” Disa replied, only to have something to say.

The jarl fetched her shoes for her. They looked tiny and ridiculous in his hands, and the gesture embarrassed her. She leaned down to put them on before he decided to help her.

The garments she’d worn when she was brought here were nowhere to be seen. Before she could ask, the girls appeared. Like the boys, they remained by the door, standing around like frightened children. Disa felt sorry for them. They’d seen eight girls only a little older than themselves lying murdered in this room. It seemed an unnecessarily cruel reminder of the nature of men.

“They will take you to the women’s house, where you can rest,” the jarl said. “Keep the cloak,” he added, just as she was about to reluctantly take it off and wrap herself only in the blanket.

She was leaving when he spoke again, “Will you come to me again tonight?” In the gloom, his eyes didn’t look yellow, but a golden brown akin to heather honey.

“Of course,” she said, as if she hadn’t taken a moment too long to reply. “I made your sister a promise.”

There was nothing more to say, and she went without looking back. The girls slunk away before she could reach them, and she had to quicken her steps to keep up with them.

At this time of day, the hall proper was an altogether different place than the one she’d seen at night. The lamps were gutted; the torches burnt to stumps. It was nearly empty of people, and more cavernous than ever. It was so quiet she could hear her own steps rustling the rushes underfoot.

High above, windows she’d failed to notice before let in a little light. The eastern one, catching the sun, drew a slanted band of white in the swirls of smoke. Just as she was staring at it, something moved up by the rafters. In the stillness between heartbeats, she saw the shadows of wings outlined in the light.

Something cold touched her heart. Then she realised that it was only a sparrow flying through the hall and out the window. She remembered the jarl's voice on the night she'd agreed to wed him: _The birds are never wrong._ But unlike him, she'd never been taught to foresee the future by observing the birds, so there was no way of knowing whether this meant anything at all.

She ran, not caring if there was anyone else to see. She ran until she reached the girls, who were just stepping outside. The fresh air and light was a blessing. She would have preferred to sleep under the open sky, rather than having to go back inside into the sickly dusk. But she had no choice, and had to follow them back to the women’s house.

*

The woman who ushered her inside and dismissed the girls was older than the mistress, with a weathered face and grey hair visible under the tightly wrapped woollen kerchief. She had a high forehead and seemingly no eyebrows, only marked brow bones that cast deep shadows over her pale blue eyes.

She motioned for Disa to sit down on the bench. “You’re still alive,” she remarked.

Disa mouthed a _yes_.

“I’m Thora, Thorleif’s daughter. I run the master’s household for him.”

“I’m Disa.”

“A lucky name.”

“It’s served me well.”

“May it keep doing that. But now you have to eat.” She nodded towards a bowl of porridge and fish by the hearth. “Then you will wash, then sleep.”

By the time Disa was ready for bed, Thora had prepared her one on the bench: a beckoning nest of thick blankets and sheep skins.

“Sleep now,” Thora said, and the wrinkles around her mouth deepened as her mouth curved into a sad little smile. “You’ll need it.”

Disa was already drifting when she heard Thora speak again.

“Poor child,” she said. “Poor, unlucky child.”

*

Disa was roused by the sound of steps, awakened from a long and confused dream where the jarl’s chambers had somehow transformed into the dazzling palace of the evil king in the tale of Shirazad the Storyteller.

“It’s past sunset,” Birsa said. “Thora said I could feed you, as long as the mistress doesn’t find out.”

Disa yawned. Her head ached. She sat up feeling more asleep than awake. Birsa’s foot was tapping against the floor, restless.

“My clothes,” Disa said. The cloak and blanket she’d worn yesterday lay folded by her feet, but her own clothes were nowhere to be seen.

“The clothes you wore when you came have already been given away. I brought you this.” She dumped a bundle of clothes into Disa’s lap: a gown, a smokkr, and a coat.

Though finely made, they were everyday garments. The gown’s chequered pattern was made of undyed wool, its shades of brown and grey recalling the shingle of a beach. The smokkr was a deep blue, pleated over the chest. The coat was dark, with a wide band along the hem: a woven pattern depicting ravens on a light grey background. It was lined with squirrel fur. Around the neck were traces of a faint, sweet musk that still lingered.

“They were my sister’s,” Birsa said. “She was tiny and raven-haired, like you; like our mother.”

When Disa opened her mouth, Birsa stopped her with an impatient gesture. “Just take it. She can’t use it now, can she? And you need it more than any of my nieces or cousins do. I’ve even altered it for you. Poor Hildi was flat as a boy, she’d have killed for a figure like yours.” She rubbed at her nose, making it bright red. 

Disa hugged the bundle to her chest, blushing. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome to it.” Birsa paused, studying Disa’s hand. “What happened? Did _he_ do it?”

“No, the mistress.”

“You’re his wife now. You don’t have to put up with that anymore.”

“His _wife_? If you tell her that, you’re a braver woman than I am.”

“We’ll see, won’t we? Anyway, let me get you your brooches.”

“I’m not sure they’re mine.”

“Oh, they’re yours. If you survive, that is. Now get dressed and I’ll make sure you look like a lady. The state of you, honestly. I’m aching to do something about that hair of yours. And what’s with your throat? Do you have a cold? It’s all that time spent on a ship, is it? Well, I’ll make you a remedy.”

Disa waited a moment, unsure of whether Birsa would keep talking. “I don’t have a cold,” she said. “That’s just my voice.”

She pulled the gown over her head before Birsa had a chance to reply. The neckline was cut so low she had to fold down her shift. Fortunately, the smokkr hid some of what the gown revealed.

Birsa helped her secure the straps of the smokkr using the brooches. Then, true to her word, she accepted the challenge that was Disa’s hair.

“You have enough hair for three women,” she said once she’d combed it smooth. She drew a line from one of Disa’s ears to the other, dividing the hair in two bunches. She began plaiting the upper half. “It’s very pretty.”

“Really? Coarse and troll-like, according to the mistress.”

Birsa tugged at the strand between her fingers. “You do what you came here to do, and you’ll be the mistress of Sunda and she’ll have to go back to being nothing but a chieftain’s wife.”

“I’ll be the mistress of Sunda,” Disa said, though she knew not to expect it. “But what will you be? What’s in it for you?”

Birsa made a sound like a laugh. Clearly she hadn’t expected the question. “I’ll be married again, probably. My betrothed is in Jorvik, in England. We’re to marry once he’s made his wealth. I’m in no hurry to marry again, and neither is he.”

Disa sensed there was more to it than that, but she couldn’t insist, not without seeming too curious.

Birsa was quick when she wanted to be. She finished the plaits and coiled them into a bundle at the back of Disa’s head. Next came a kerchief, which Disa hadn’t even noticed among the clothes. It was a soft, fine fabric, two hands wide and as long as Disa’s arm. It was made of wool; it seemed none of the women here, except the mistress, wore linen.

“This one’s mine,” Birsa said as she wrapped it around Disa’s head. Then she pushed the kerchief further back, to reveal Disa’s hairline. “You’re welcome to it.”

“Thank you.”

“There,” Birsa said and straightened the brooches and placed a shawl around Disa’s neck. “Now put the coat on and let’s get you to the smithy.” She pulled her shawl over her head against the cold, then made for the door.

*

“Are you doing this for revenge?” Disa asked once she was seated on the bench in Birsa’s house. The cold air outside had cleared away the sluggishness of daytime sleep.

Only Biarni seemed taken aback by the question. He’d been warming his large hands by the fire, but now he folded them in his lap, like a scolded boy.

“Of course not,” Birsa said. Then she chuckled. “You don’t believe me.”

“I didn’t say.”

“No, but you don’t have the wits to hide what you’re thinking, though you really believe you do. Are your people so simple? You’ll have to try harder here.”

“We don’t want revenge _on the jarl_ ,” Birsa continued, when Disa didn’t reply. “We want to understand what happened to our sister. We don’t want her sacrifice to have been in vain, or for more girls to die.”

She spoke carefully. Too carefully, Disa thought. As if explaining things to an idiot. Did she really seem so stupid to them? And if she did, would they even bother telling her the truth? 

“Has he told you anything about his condition?” Birsa asked.

Disa shrugged, still unsure of what to tell them and what not. “He says he mustn’t fall asleep.”

“We’d already figured that out.” 

“From what I hear, he doesn’t sleep much, not even during the day,” Biarni said.

“Anyone who’s seen him lately could tell you that,” Birsa replied. “Have you gone blind since our Hildi died and I went away? He looks like a corpse. He’s not going to last much longer.”

“Don’t say that. Don’t you ill-wish him!”

“I’m not! I’m only saying—”

“You’re only saying things that tempt fate when spoken out loud.” Biarni turned from her to Disa. He looked flustered. “I’ve said it before: the jarl is a good man. I want us to break this curse for his sake, too. Not just to stop the killings.”

“He killed your sister,” Disa said, feeling like someone walking on thin ice for a dare.

“That’s untrue. Something killed my sister. But it wasn’t him.”

Disa wanted to ask more, but Birsa spoke before she could do so. “Squabbling won’t get us anywhere. Let’s eat.”

*

“You want me to take you to the women’s house?” Biarni asked, once they’d finished their meal. “I need to get back to work.”

Birsa’s cat had entered for the night, and now lay in Disa’s lap, purring as she petted him. Disa stopped moving her fingers. The cat, bothered by this lack of respect, fell quiet. He opened an amber eye. He wasn’t displeased – not yet – but he’d let her know that he would be if she didn’t resume. She buried her fingers in his charcoal mane and began scratching again, just below the ear. The cat stretched, making the most of her touch.

“You don’t want to be outside alone now,” Biarni continued, apparently interpreting her reluctant expression as her not wanting him to go with her.

“Take me to the hall,” Disa said, stroking along the cat’s side. “There’s nothing for me in the women’s house. I have no daytime tasks.”

“With the warriors and the servants?” Birsa asked. “Don’t be daft. Stay here until the evening meal. There’s just me; our serving girl is helping out in the weaving room.”

Disa hesitated.

“Sleep a little, or help me around the house. It doesn’t bother me to have you here.” Birsa smiled. “And _he_ would be so annoyed if I’d let you go. Wouldn’t you, you lazy thing? Hm?”

She crouched next to Disa, adding her hands to the adoration of the cat, who – in the manner of cats – was basking in it, purring loudly. A drop was already forming in one corner of his mouth.

“Silly little kitty, he’s been so lonely. There was no one to pet him,” Birsa said, in a tone other women might have used to address a baby. She leaned in to press a kiss to the cat’s forehead, then grabbed his ears, holding him like that as she kissed him again. The cat graciously allowed it.

Biarni cleared his throat. There was a hint of a smile on his lips. “Well, I’ll be going. Thiostolf ordered a spear, and it won’t make itself. Do you think Sea-Troll can spare me?”

“His name’s Sea-Troll?” Disa asked. The cat seemed to have melted in her lap, spreading out like a fur throw.

“He turned up on a merchant ship,” Birsa said. “The crew had no idea where he’d joined them. They were going to drown him, saying there had to be something uncanny about him. But Biarni saved him and gifted him to us. Hildi named him Sea-Troll. She always had a weird sense of humour.”

“He knew you’d return,” Biarni said. “And now we’re both glad.” He touched her shoulder as he made his way to the door.

When Birsa lifted her head, her eyes were shiny with tears. “You’ll stay, then?” she asked Disa, who nodded. “Good. Then I’ll do some cleaning. I can’t believe what a mess they’ve made of this place. I wasn’t away for that long.”

The house was one of the tidiest Disa had ever seen, but she didn’t dare to say so.

“So Ragnar the skald is gone,” Birsa said, filling a pot with water from a bucket, then hanging it over the fire to heat. “Too bad. He was a drunkard and a lecher, but he knew all the best gossip. We’ll have to ask around and see who else knows things. Now tell me more about your night with the jarl, and I’ll have a look at your hand.”

*

Disa fell asleep after Birsa had changed her bandage. She didn’t wake up again until Biarni returned. While Disa tidied her clothes, Birsa changed into a finer shawl and kissed her cat goodnight.

The moon was full above their heads when they stepped outside, glittering in the faint cover of freshly fallen snow. They hadn’t brought any torch, but something about Birsa’s confidence was reassuring. That, and the size of her and Biarni. Anything roaming the darkness would surely look for easier prey than this.

They fetched Disa’s borrowed cloak in the women’s house before going to the evening meal. The quiet, empty night had been soothing. It was only when they stepped inside the hall that Disa felt her heart sink.

“Just stay awake,” Birsa said, as they reached the upper hall. She leaned in to straighten the kerchief on Disa’s head, making sure more of her hair was visible. “Just stay awake and keep him awake, and I’ll find a way to break the curse.”

Then she and Biarni took their seats, and Disa continued on her own to where the jarl was sitting, surrounded by the mistress and his men. The only ones who weren’t warriors were the feeble old man who’d blessed the wedding and two girls who, it seemed, were there to tend to him.

The mistress pretended not to see her. The jarl shifted closer to the warrior he was speaking to, leaving a space between himself and the mistress for Disa. She would have preferred to sit anywhere else, but it wasn’t for her to choose. Quietly, she handed her cloak to one of the boys standing behind the jarl and sat down. The mistress gathered her skirts about her and addressed the old man. 

Disa turned to the jarl, who had finally noticed her. He was staring at her, paler than ever and stricken, the way Sigrid looked when frightened half to death by one of Astrid’s scary stories. Disa was about to reach for his hand, but stopped herself.

His reaction made no sense at all. She had no idea what she’d done, or what he’d seen. He looked away before she could ask. He made a sign, and the serving girls began to fill their cups.

The meal that followed was a dreary one. People ate, and the warriors drank, but there was no talk and no music. The jarl didn’t eat at all, he just sat there picking at his food. His hands were almost as unsteady as those of the old man. Had Disa been on her own with him, she would have been tempted to offer to help him. As it was, she didn’t even know how to talk to him.

By the time everyone had finished eating, and she saw the serving girls approach to take her to the jarl’s chambers, she was almost relieved. She brushed some bread crumbs from the breast of her smokkr, and it was only then – looking at her clothes – that she understood what had so disconcerted the jarl.

She was wearing a dead girl’s clothes. A dead girl who had been small and black-haired, just like her. No wonder he looked like he’d seen a ghost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smokkr - a type of outer gown worn by Viking Age Scandinavian women. It was sleeveless, and the straps were secured either by tying, or using what archaeologists have termed "tortoise brooches". [Here](https://ceceril.tumblr.com/post/611556866179383296) is an example of a reconstructed one, worn under a coat. 
> 
> Jorvik - York, England.
> 
> There's a companion post to this chapter [here](https://ceceril.dreamwidth.org/7985.html).


	8. The Bedfellow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the end notes, you'll find a glossary and a companion post .

**PART FOUR – The second night**

***

The serving girls refused to escort Disa on their own, and it was decided that a couple of boys with torches would light their way. The order was given by the captain of the ship that had brought Disa to Sunda. The jarl himself remained silent, as if none of this had anything to do with him. The whiteness of his skin combined with the rich hues of his clothes and the silver on his arms and wrists combined to make him seem less human, less alive. He might as well have been a carved god decked out for a feast. No wonder people feared him, Disa thought. Like this, he seemed to embody all of the mistress’ cruelty, and there was nothing at all about him that recalled Sigrid.

But as everyone else’s attention was on the servants and the warrior, the jarl touched his forehead, as if he’d been about to lean his head in his hand but thought better of it. Disa experienced an unwanted surge of pity. He wasn’t unfeeling; he was tired, as if having his own people treating him like a horror was wearing him out. Then he noticed her looking at him. Instinctively, the way women are taught to be pleasant, she smiled at him. He blinked, as if he hadn’t expected to be looked at. Then he signalled for the boys to go. Disa followed. She could hear the girls sniffling behind her. 

When they entered the jarl’s chambers, one of the logs in the fire collapsed, causing the rest of the pile to shift against the firedogs. One of the boys wailed and clasped the arm of his comrade. The girls gathered close to Disa.

“God of Thunder save us,” the youngest girl whispered. “Oh, Son of the Earth, destroyer of giants and trolls–” her voice broke, and she continued under her breath.

“It’s nothing,” Disa said, as she might have told the girls at Nes when they were all on edge after having listened to some gruesome tale on a winter’s night. Her voice was calm; comforting others had always made it easier for her to be strong.

Besides, what did these children have to worry about? They weren’t the ones about to be locked in for the night with a man who might lose his mind and kill them.

“It’s just the fire,” she added in an elder-sister tone. “Now see to things before your master arrives.”

After a few moments spent giving her frightened looks, which she ignored, they obeyed. They all went about their chores with a fierce determination that seemed to spring from not wanting to spend a moment longer than necessary in here.

Disa couldn’t really blame them. Though getting away from the mistress was a relief, she’d forgotten how eerie and cold this place was. She felt like one of the devoted women of the stories, the ones so enamoured with their dead lovers they would step inside the burial mounds for a last night together. 

While the boys lit lamps and tended to the fire, the girls helped prepare Disa for bed. They were too clumsy to do much about her hair, and she sent them away and settled on combing it herself, before twisting it into a single plait. Then there was nothing to do but to clean her teeth and wash her face and hands – more than that would have required removing her shift, which she wouldn’t do while the boys still lingered – then sweep herself into the cloak and wait.

Before long, the jarl appeared. While the boys helped him, Disa sat on the bench by the fire, turned away. Then the boys left and the jarl stepped into her line of vision. He’d stripped down to his shirt and the thin trousers he’d worn underneath the thicker, outer ones. Without the trappings of power – the bright colours and the jewels – he looked desperately young. With his long, spindly limbs, he recalled the Spear-God’s eight-legged steed rather than one of his wolves.

It should make her less frightened, but instead it made everything worse. The hairy savage she’d once expected him to be would have been easy to understand. His violence would have been predictable. The queer creature in front of her was constantly shifting: from sickly lord, to sullen youth, to overly polite host, to gifted storyteller, and now to this waifish boy. He could probably switch to a blood-thirsty monster just as fast.

He remained standing a few paces away, studying her. “Am I really that different to my sister?” he asked. “To Sigrid?”

Had he heard her thoughts? 

“You’re taller,” she said, the first thing that came into her head. He was one of the tallest men she’d ever seen.

“I would be.” When she didn’t reply to that, he added, “I would prefer spending this night in bed. It’s cold, and I’m tired.”

 _In bed_. Something locked in her throat, barring any words. It wasn’t this new fear – of him, of his hands, of whatever walked here at night – but the old fear, of men. Over the years, it had knitted into her muscles, into her very bones. Sometimes it crept up on her as it had now.

He watched her. What ever was he seeing?

“I won’t touch you,” he said and folded his arms behind his back. The position made his collarbones jut out under his shirt. She could even make out his ribs. “If that’s what you prefer, we’ll just sit by the fire again.”

She took a deep breath and forced her body to calm itself. This was a gamble, she reminded herself: a game for the bold, not for a thrall content with nothing more than a roof over her head and a mistress who treated her like she would a lap dog, to kick or pet as she pleased. She’d survived one night; why wouldn’t she survive another? Why wouldn’t she be the mistress of her own fate? 

“No. I’ll join you in bed tonight, lord.” She rose. “Only…” Her courage failed her, and she couldn’t finish the sentence.

“I said I won’t touch you.” He paused, his expression blank. “Do you want me to place my sword between us, as they say Sigurd the Dragonslayer did when after he'd saved Sigrdrifa and shared her bed?”

She felt the hairs at the back of her neck stand on end at the thought. Not just the idea of being so close to a sword he must have killed with countless times, but the mere mention of the Volsungar.

“There’s really no need for it.” Sigrdrifa had been a valkyrja. She could have used it against her bedfellow if she cared to, but Disa had never held a sword in her life.

“Of course.” He nodded in a way that was curiously like a small bow. “I’ll leave it where it is.”

Again, she had the distinct impression he’d heard her thoughts, not just the words she’d spoken out loud.

She waited for him to get into bed, then she quickly removed the cloak and joined him. He didn’t lie down, but sat up against the pillows, so that was what she did, too. She was careful to keep to her side, making sure no parts of their bodies touched. 

He didn’t draw the bed curtains. Perhaps the darkness would make it even more of an effort to stay awake; or perhaps it was out of courtesy, not to lock her in more than necessary.

If it hadn’t been for the circumstances, she would have relished the bed. The mattress was thick and free of lumps. It was warm, too, from wrapped up hot stones. The pillows were as plump and soft as the birds whose down made up the filling. There was down in one of the blankets, too, stuffed between layers of linen. On top of the blankets lay pelts. She ran her fingers through the silken fur of one of them. Marten. She wanted to bury her face in it, breathe in the scent and remember happier times.

She hadn’t known anything as wonderful as this bed since before her world shattered. It was like being cocooned in smooth, luxurious warmth, untouched by the decay of the rest of the hall. She relaxed into it, as enchanted by it as she’d been by the beautiful glass cups and pitcher last night.

“How is your hand today?” At the sound of the jarl’s voice, she was jolted. 

“It’s healing.”

“I’m glad.” After a pause, he said, “You’ve been visiting the smithy. Or so my mother tells me.”

“I didn’t know I wasn’t allowed beyond the hall or the women’s house.”

Her defiance didn’t rouse him. He shrugged. “You’re free to do whatever you please as long as you’re here with me at night.”

His lack of interest was almost physically unsettling, as if she’d aimed a blow at him, only for him to move smoothly out of the way. She waited, not quite knowing what he was up to, or what her next move should be.

“Birsa’s back.” He adjusted one of his pillows. “You’ve talked to her, haven’t you?”

“I’ve talked to them both.”

Would he admonish her? Somehow, she could expect him to kill her in a fit of otherworldly rage, but she couldn’t imagine him casually striking her, the way the mistress did.

“Talk all you want; it doesn’t bother me. But can’t you see that it shames me that my wife should have to rely on someone’s charity for clothes?”

“Then, perhaps, you should have given me clothes. Or am I to walk around naked until I save you?” She regretted her outburst almost immediately. It seemed not even the journey to Nes, or all these years with the mistress, had managed to completely dull the sharp tongue and unfortunate temper she’d been born with. 

His face turned a bright, beautiful red that a younger version of herself would have laughed at endlessly. But she’d learned since then that men didn’t like being laughed at. “I—I mean, of course not! I will have a word with my mother. She must have forgotten. She’s been very busy, and she’s not getting any younger.”

Disa didn’t think the mistress had ever forgotten anything in her life, or that she would relish being thought of as a senile old crone, but she refrained from saying so. And yet, she couldn’t entirely resist using the advantage that his confusion presented.

“Birsa said her sister had no use for her clothes anymore, and since we seem to have been roughly the same size…”

“Ah. A small revenge for Birsa. Not as satisfying as hacking open my ribcage with an axe, which is what she tried to do before her brother intervened, but it’s something.”

His calmness irked her. “You find it amusing that she wants to avenge her sister?”

He caught her eyes. She couldn’t look away. It was those damned eyes of his. “No. You misunderstand me. I find it admirable. Only a coward would stand by and do nothing when their own sister has suffered so! I think that she might be the only one at Sunda seeing things clearly and understanding what needs to be done.” He paused, tilting his head a fraction. “And what about you? You don’t mind being used by her against me?”

The fact that she hadn’t even realised this until just recently made his words sting. “Not at all. And besides, they say you’re a good man.” Perhaps saying it would make it true.

But instead, those very words managed what all her previous ones hadn’t.

He grabbed the blanket. His knuckles went bloodless; bone and sinew showed stark under the skin. “You tell them not to say that until I’m on the pyre; until everything I’ve done – or not – is accounted for. Their sister is dead because of me, and so are seven other girls.” He made a sound deep in his throat, as if he’d almost choked. “Is that why you’re always staring at my hands? Are you thinking about them around your own neck? Are you so frightened of me?”

She didn’t quite know what to reply, what he wanted to hear. The fact was that she wasn’t as frightened as she ought to be. The moment she’d managed to get under his skin and unsettle him he’d ceased to seem invincible. 

“Wouldn’t you be?” she asked.

He folded his hands in his lap, then unfolded them again. When she studied them, trying to think of something more to say, she noticed the recent scratch marks on the nail of his left ring finger. It was a rune. Had he worn such marks before? Had she failed to notice, or was this something new? The fact that she might not be paying close enough attention made the fear return. What else might she have missed that could help her understand him?

“You’re afraid too,” she blurted out.

In reply, he showed her his hand. She’d always thought all men had blunt, square fingernails, but his were shaped like the almonds the traders brought from the south. Neat and cut short, they made his hands look strangely and unsettlingly elegant. Sigrid had just such hands, but a fraction of the size of his.

“For protection.” His voice was flat. The rune had to mean more to him than it did to her; layers and layers of powerful secrets in that one little mark. “Though what good it will do me, I can’t say. Mother won’t admit it, but I’m fighting a losing battle.” He rubbed his eyes.

Why was he telling her this? Was it that she was a stranger still, someone who wouldn’t judge him like his own people would?

“Birsa said she’s looking for a cure.”

He turned towards her. The purple shadows under his eyes were redder from his rubbing. “What can she do that mother can’t?” Then he seemed to reconsider. “Let her keep looking. I won’t interfere. I won’t meddle in women’s matters.”

“How is curing you a woman’s matter?”

“Because mother considers it _her_ duty. So you tell your friend to be careful.”

“She isn’t my friend.”

“She’s made it her task that you’ll survive this, hasn’t she? I’d consider that a friend.”

He was right, but she wouldn’t admit it. She kept her mouth shut and waited for him to say more, to steer the conversation back to something safer. The best thing would be to spend this night like they had the previous one, exchanging stories, but after a while he lay down and seemed to retreat back into his own thoughts. It seemed their discussion had wearied him. The silence grew until it proved impossible to overcome; she simply didn’t know him well enough to offer an unsolicited story.

Time passed in that mysterious way of night, when a moment might turn out to be half the time between dusk and dawn, and the fire could burn down in the blink of an eye. Disa felt her eyelids grow heavier. It wasn’t a pleasant drowsiness, but a descent into a haze that wasn’t quite sleep or wakefulness. Like a child spending an uneasy night in a strange house, she imagined the shadows coming alive to become faceless, nameless things that crept and crawled and multiplied. She almost broke down and ran for the safety of the hearth. Fire was fire, retaining its purity even in this tainted place.

Then something rustled against the window shutters, like a beast trying to claw its way inside. She hid under the covers. It was only when she remembered the position of the large warden tree outside that she dared to look out. It had to be those branches that had moved against the shutters.

She was the only one who had startled. The jarl had fallen asleep. His head had lolled back and to the side, so that he was facing her. The next moment, his expression changed, from the stillness of the unconscious to the rapid blinking of someone who was dreaming. His eyebrows came together in a frown that became something worse as his mouth opened and his body strained. His hands rose in front of him, as if to push something away.

There was a knock at the door as the first sleep ended, and he woke, gasping. When the boys entered, he pretended to be in control again.

“We need more light,” he demanded. “And something to drink.” Although his voice was level, Disa could see his pulse beating on his neck, as quick as her own. 

As soon as they were alone again, he turned to her. “You let me fall asleep.” 

She didn’t like the accusation in his tone. What was she supposed to have done? “Those who never sleep go mad,” she said.

“What makes you think I’m not already?” he asked. His eyes were too bright, and too wide open. When she didn’t reply, he shook his head. He raked his fingers through his hair. “Forgive me. I’m not myself. No wonder I’m frightening you.”

Something about his bewildered expression recalled Sigrid. She felt an unaccustomed tenderness. Not too long ago, he’d been a little boy, a child similar to Sigrid. She pictured that boy as she pressed on. “You didn’t frighten me. You had a nightmare. Perhaps… Perhaps you’d care to tell me about it?”

His entire body stiffened. “There’s nothing to tell. I don’t recall.”

“Nothing at all, lord?”

He shifted, as if she were holding him and he was trying to wriggle out of her grip. Then he sighed and gave in. “It’s a nightmare, like the ones I always have when I sleep. Something is there with me. I can’t breathe. Then I wake.”

His words made her touch her own neck. She hurried to clasp her hands in her lap, but he’d noticed. He was instantly the one in control.

“You think it’s guilt. Perhaps it is.” He paused, then changed the subject. “Don’t ’lord’ me,” he said, his mouth curled with a disgust she saw no reason for. “That’s how my mother addressed the jarl. I have a name. You’re entitled to use it.”

She wondered if he’d said the same thing to the other brides. Or hadn’t he? Apart from Hrafnhild, they had all been simple peasant girls from his own lands. She was something else entirely, and she would use it to her advantage.

She dared to smile at him. “Would you tell me another story, Sigurd?”

He studied her for a moment, searching for something. The he decided to be appeased. “Have you heard the one about Tjodrik, the king of Reidgotaland?”

She had, of course, as was expected of her. “It’s been years. Will you refresh my memory?”

“As long as you don’t have any other requests?”

“No, Tjodrik will do.” She recalled it being a long story, which suited her. She curled up on her side, making herself more comfortable as she watched him.

He took a sip from his cup and began his tale. Soon all his unease was gone, as he lost himself in his words. It was a less popular story than the ones about the Volsungar, but Disa had heard it enough times to follow the complex tale of the man who’d made himself king of Rom itself. The story itself wasn’t good by any means, but he made it entertaining. He gave each character its own voice; he made her feel their joy and their sorrow.

“People knew of him in the east, too,” she said, as the story came to an end. She needed to hear herself again, to regain some control and know she hadn’t lost herself in the spell cast by his voice. She spoke without thinking, the words tripping out of her big mouth. “My mother’s first husband was a learned man. He translated writing, from Greek to his language, to Arabic–“

“Arabic,” he said, as if tasting the word. “That’s the language of the runes on the silver coins, isn’t it?”

She nodded. Her throat felt thick.

“Your mother, was she of the same people?”

Disa swallowed. She recalled the words her mother had told her, on the rare occasions she talked about the past at all. “No. We are Persians. Our kings were once the mightiest of the east; of the entire world.” She couldn’t help the tremble in her voice, a tremble that had always been in her mother’s voice as she said those same words.

“You said ’were’.”

“The Arabs conquered our lands,” she continued, her voice steady now, still repeating her mother’s words. “They razed the places where we worshipped our god and the places where we laid out our dead. They tormented the dogs that were holy to us. Those of us who refused to worship their god were forced to flee into the mountains or to the desert settlements.” These memories, which were not hers but passed from parent to child through generations, still had the power to choke her up.

“What happened to your mother?”

“There was an uprising. She was taken, I think. She was sold.” She felt a twinge of shame. By telling him these things, she was exposing herself to him, but she couldn’t help but go on: the words demanded to be told. “Her tribe wouldn’t even harm animals if they could help it, but then the Arabs brought in settlers from Syria to their mountains. Enough is enough.” 

She hadn’t spoken of these things at Nes. No one but Sigrid had ever cared to ask about her about her parents. The rage was like a heat that rose from deep inside her. She felt as if she could still smell the smoke of a pillaged town; still hear the screams of people being butchered. 

He had that bewildered look about him, the one men often had when they failed to understand why a woman had to feel so much. “You said your mother was the wife of a wise man–” 

She couldn’t help the dismissive gesture she made to silence him. The sheer force of her fury made her feel larger than life, as if she were a pillar of fire towering above him. “She was only one of many. He had a house full of them, you understand: women like my mother who were beautiful and learned, who were taught to sing and dance, to recite poetry and discuss ideas, to speak various languages. All to entertain _men_.” The last word felt like bile. 

Her anger made him awkward. “Well, then,” he said, clearing his throat. “Now that you’ve told me about yourself, it’s only fair that I should do the same.”

But before he could begin, there was a knock on the door. It was a new day.

*

This time it was Thora the housekeeper who fetched Disa and escorted her to the women’s house. When they stepped out of the hall into the courtyard, the night had given way to a grey morning. Though so far north, winter still hadn’t decided on whether to claim Sunda or not. The air was damp and heavy like wet wool and the newly risen sun hid behind thick clouds.

To have seen the sun would have given her hope. Now there was nothing but a weariness that was already turning into the headache of the morning after a sleepless night. The silence was shattered by the sound of someone keening. It would have been disturbing at any time, but right now, in the glum dullness of this overcast day, it turned Disa’s blood to ice. Thora barely paid it any heed. Only when they entered the house did Disa see that her face was rigid.

“It’s the thralls,” Thora said. “They lost one of their own tonight.”

“The creature—”

“We’ll be all right.” Thora motioned for Disa to sit down and filled a basin with hot water from a pot hanging over the hearth.

Disa didn’t dare ask about the death. She didn’t want to know. She decided not to think about it. To do so would be like contemplating the distance to the ground whilst climbing a tree.

“Wash now, and I’ll prepare something for you to eat.” Thora placed the basin next to Disa on the bench. “Birsa says she’ll come round later.” Thora removed the water and replaced it with a big bowl of porridge. Her hands were large and rough compared to her small frame. “She’s busy asking questions. I told her to be careful, for all our sakes.”

“Questions?”

“She wanted to speak to the thul.” The thul was the embodied memory of a ruler: he knew everything there was to know about his lord’s family and ancestors. It must be the old man she’d seen last night, the one who’d blessed the wedding. “It’ll do her no good. Sibbi’s the mistress’ man. He’s loyal to her, like he was loyal to her brother, father, and grandfather. No, she’ll get nothing out of him.”

*

Disa fell asleep as soon as she went to bed. She dreamed of a girl calling for her. Thinking it was Sigrid, she followed: into the woods, into the night.

 _Disa_ , the voice said. _Disa, come! Come, I’ll show you!_

She followed the voice to a clearing. There, by the roots of a great tree was the jarl – Sigurd – kneeling by a spring. There was blood on his cheek, and when she said his name and he looked at her, she saw that he’d lost one of his eyes.

The empty socket was still bleeding. There was a dagger in one of his hands and in the other, he held the eye. He held it out over the water, which began to churn in anticipation of his sacrifice, the same sacrifice the Spear-God had made into Mímir’s well to receive his secret knowledge.

She ran to stop him, but the eye slipped from his fingers and the spring boiled over, covering her skirts in hot blood. From everywhere, she heard the girl’s laughter, louder and louder.

 _He’ll be the death of you, Disa!_ the voice shouted. _He’ll have your heart’s blood!_

*

The dream faded instantly once she woke up, leaving nothing but a sense of dread, like something sticky she couldn’t quite wash off.

“He slept, but it was just for a few moments,” Disa told Birsa, when she was back in the siblings’ house and Birsa had sent her maid on an errand elsewhere. “He was there all the time. He was breathing and dreaming; his hugr couldn’t have been elsewhere.”

She didn’t tell Birsa about Sigurd’s nightmares, or the faint memory of her own.

“But how would you know?” Birsa ladled some soup into a bowl, which she handed to Disa. “You don’t know what someone looks like when they do that.”

“I would have known.”

Birsa pursed her mouth. She exchanged a glance with her brother before addressing Disa again. “And you never slept?”

“No.” Disa didn’t know whether it was a lie or not. She stared at her own reflection in her soup. The eyes staring back at her were huge and frightened, more so than she was aware of being. She lifted the bowl to her mouth so as not to have to say more.

Birsa didn’t seem convinced.

Sea-Troll the cat had been sleeping on a bench. Now he stretched, jumped soundlessly onto the floor, and hurried to Birsa’s side. He rubbed against her legs, letting out little chirping noises until she gave in and offered him a piece of fish from her own bowl.

“I’m not spoiling him,” she told her brother. “You know I wouldn’t, but he’s such a good boy. And he’s so brave for staying, when all the other cats have gone.”

Biarni merely shrugged and broke off a piece of bread, which he dipped into his bowl. “You sure you never slept?” he asked Disa.

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.” Then, thinking back on what Birsa had said, she turned to her. “Did you say all the cats are gone?”

Birsa replied with a quick nod.

“Where?”

“No idea. Maybe they’ve been eaten. Maybe they’ve just left because there’s something bigger and nastier around. Something that’s declared Sunda its territory. The dogs would do the same, were they not slaves to their owners.”

Disa thought of the cowering creatures she’d seen in the hall. She could well believe it.

“Whatever it is, it worries the beasts,” Biarni said. “You never hear it, just the noises the animals make when they sense it.”

His words made the light of the fire feel inadequate. There were too many shadows, too many places where unspeakable things could hide, even in the safety of indoors. And outdoors, the night was vast. Nestled between the dark, unknown expanses of sea and forest, even Sunda of the jarls was tiny.

Sea-Troll stilled. The dark of his eyes expanded, swelling into round circles. He sank into the floor rushes, his entire body flattening as he stared towards the door. The moment passed, and he relaxed again. He began to wash himself, as if showing fear had sullied him.

Biarni rose. He just stood there, not opening the door.

“We’re not getting anywhere,” Birsa said. “We’re just waiting for something to happen. We need to be bolder. We need to _make_ things happen.”

*

At the evening meal, Disa noticed the mistress watching Birsa. Sigurd had been right. Birsa – and she herself – would have to tread carefully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary
> 
> God of Thunder - also the Earth's Son, the Master of the Goats, etc. The god þórr.
> 
> The Spear-God's eight-legged steed - Sleipnir, the best of all horses in Old Norse mythology. His father was the stallion Svaðilfari and his mother the god Loki (who was a mare at the time of conception).
> 
> Valkyrja - chooser of the slain, shieldmaiden loyal to Óðinn, who brought dead warriors to his hall, valhǫll. 
> 
> Tjodrik - Theoderic the Great, 454 – 526, king of the Ostrogothic kingdom of Italy.
> 
> Rom - Rome.
> 
> Reidgotaland - The mythological homeland of the Ostrogoths somewhere in Scandinavia.
> 
> Thul - a member of the court whose precise role is uncertain but probably had to do with the preservation of knowledge of the past and the judging of present statements against it. Known as thyle in Old English.
> 
> Mímir - Wise giant who was beheaded by the gods. Óðinn embalmed his head and kept it in a well. Later, he (Óðinn) sacrificed his eye to the well to receive wisdom.
> 
> Hugr - the "essence" of someone, combining aspects of personality, thought, wish, and desire. People with a strong hugr could extend their influence beyond their own body, and even make it leave the body. It seems to have had an aura that some people could perceive. Hugr could also be used metaphorically to refer to someone's mood or character.
> 
> And the companion post is [here](https://ceceril.dreamwidth.org/8356.html).


	9. Dís

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the end notes there's a glossary and a link to a companion post.

**PART FIVE – The third night**

***

On their third night together, Disa decided she might as well be comfortable and warm, and waited for Sigurd in bed. By the time he arrived, her eyelids were already heavy. Once she felt the covers of the bed move as he settled on his side, it felt like only a moment had passed since he’d entered the room, but one look at him told her she was wrong.

The hair framing his face was wet. He’d removed his outer clothing and even washed, and she hadn’t noticed because she’d fallen asleep. She scrambled to sit up against the pillows. In the silence as she tried to think of something to say, she became aware of the sound of the warden tree’s branches against the shuttered window.

“The wind…” she said.

He looked at her as if he were searching for something in her expression. “There’s no wind tonight.”

She opened her mouth, but no words came.

“So you hear it too.”

She nodded.

“I hear it every night, but no one else does.” He spoke softly, almost in a whisper. “Sometimes I think it’s all in my head. Or that I’m dreaming; that I’ve just returned from England and am lying in my own bed for the first time in years, asleep. Is that what you are, my Dís? A speck of beauty in this ugly nightmare?”

“I’m not a dream.” She didn’t like his tone; the way his voice picked up speed, as if he couldn’t stop the flow of his words. “I’m as real as you are. Here. Can’t you feel it?” She dared to edge in closer and placed her hand on top of his. He was so cold she almost withdrew. 

“Tell me something.” He looked from their hands to her face. His eyes were open wide and his breath came too hasty and shallow. “Then I’ll know you’re real.”

“What do you want to hear?”

“Tell me about yourself.” He grabbed her hand, enclosing her fingers. She could feel the calluses from a sword in his palm. “I couldn’t possibly dream up all that, could I?” Then another thought seemed to occur to him. “Though I seem to have done a good job on your face.” 

He reached for her with his free hand and she stopped breathing as she expected his fingers to close around her throat. She stared into his eyes, waiting. It was the longest moment in her life. Then the tips of his fingers were on her cheek, on her jaw, tracing her features like a blind man would. 

She let out an embarrassing sound, as close to a sob as she’d ever heard herself make in all these long years. She curled in on herself like a threatened hedgehog.

The cold fingers on her cheek disappeared. Their hands slipped apart. 

When she dared to look at him, he was frowning, confused, as if he couldn’t understand what he’d just done. There was a sheen of sweat on his forehead. “I keep frightening you,” he said. “Forgive me. I’m not myself.”

_Be brave_ , she told herself. _Be brave, you weakling!_ “I’m not frightened,” she said, and she almost managed it without stammering. “Only a little, perhaps.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, showing eyelids the colour of bruises. When he opened them again, his weird mood was gone and he was calm. “Let me offer you a story in recompense,” he said. “That’ll keep me occupied.”

She nodded. Anything to encourage him.

“I had a nurse,” he told her. “The daughter of an Irish chieftain. The jarl named her Dýrr when he captured her.”

She tried to keep the distaste from her face. Naming a thrall ‘valuable’ recalled her life at Nes: being shown off to visitors together with Irish caskets and Frankish blades. 

“But her own name was Deirdre.” The strange name rolled easily from his lips. There was a question there, one she refused to answer. “Every night, she would tell me stories. My favourites were the ones about their great hero, a man called Cú Chulainn.” This name was harsh in his mouth, so different from the other. “His name means the hound of Culann. It wasn’t the name he was given at birth, but the one he earned whilst still a child…”

She settled on her side, her head propped up on an arm, as if resting on a divan. He shifted and seated himself facing her, cross-legged. 

He told her the tale of a great hero fathered by god; a man prone to battle rages, like the wolf warriors and the bear warriors. She’d heard many tales similar to it, northern and eastern, but it didn’t matter. He held nothing back. Like the Spear-God himself – the lord of the ecstasy that was poetry, not just of the madness of war – he channelled his intensity into his storytelling and gave her a performance worthy of a king’s hall.

The world shrank into nothing more than the two of them, joined by his words. The outside world could have vanished – the moon above Sunda swallowed by the monstrous wolf, the gods lost in the war against chaos – and she wouldn’t have noticed. She forgot her fear and lost herself in his voice. By the time the hero died in battle and Sigurd’s last word faded into silence, Disa knew she could have listened to him all night, every night. This was what the evil king would had felt, listening to Shirazad’s stories. 

The flames in the lamps closest to the bed had died out, though she couldn’t say when it had happened. The fire in the hearth was all red embers and frail piles of white ash. Still looking into Sigurd’s eyes, she felt equally spent. 

“Did you enjoy it?” he asked, as if there was any doubt about it. 

She had no words, so she simply offered him the cup of water that stood by the bed, holding it out to him like a queen would to one of the king’s skalds. He drank some and offered it back. She turned the cup before drinking, so that her lips touched the place where his had just been, as if some of his skill could rub off on her. It would need to, or she would end up the one enchanted. She would have needed silence after his story, the way one needed rest after a splendid meal, but the night was far from over.

“Would you mind telling me about the heroes of your people?” Sigurd asked, lying down on his side to look at her. “I think I’ve earned it.”

She decided to accept the challenge. “Our kings ruled an empire so huge no one has known the likes of it,” she said, repeating the words first whispered into her ear when she was a little girl, lying in her bed at night. “They were the lords of plains, deserts, and mountains; of cities like Šuš, Pâthragâda, and Pārsa. They made themselves the rulers of the Lydians, the Medians, even the Egyptians. The King of All Kings controlled lands so vast it would have taken you months to ride from one end to the other.”

“Tell me of these kings.” The dark in Sigurd’s eyes had expanded, so that the yellow was just a thin, golden ring. “I… I seem to remember some stories about the eastern kings, stories that travelled back with the men who’d gone to fight in the armies of the kings of Rom, many generations ago. But they’re nothing but echoes of echoes. Tell me, please.”

So she told him of Kourosh the Great. She told him how Kourosh’s grandfather had dreamed that his daughter had pissed a river that drowned the land, and how the wise men had told him it meant that she would give birth to a son who would overthrow him. Naturally, the grandfather had ordered that the boy be killed, but Kourosh had lived, and he’d grown into a conqueror king, who’d laid the grounds of an empire. She told him of Kourosh’s sons, and the intrigues that finally led to the rise of Daryush.

But Sigurd wanted more.

“Tell me more about their armies,” he asked, sounding like a thirsty man asking for a cup of ale. “Tell me everything you know about their battles and victories.”

Armies! What did she care about them, about masses of warriors?

“And their defeats?” she said tartly. “They tried to take the land of the Greeks, but they didn’t succeed. I know about that because my mother helped translate the Greek accounts of the wars.”

He stared at her so desperately she thought she’d gone too far. This was when he’d finally turn into a beast and strangle her. But he was as impossible to predict as ever. “Forgive me,” he said. “I won’t ask you to talk about things that are distasteful to you. But I can’t help myself. You’ve brought me such a dowry, and I’m a greedy man.”

His words were like being forced to wake up. She’d let herself get caught up in this game, but now it became clear to her that she was only his prey. His push and pull for her words were just a cat teasing a mouse before going for the kill.

“What dowry does a thrall bring?” she said. “You’re mocking me.”

His honey-coloured eyes opened wide and innocent. His hurt expression was like Sigrid’s: a sort of fading, or shrinking away, as if he’d been bodily wounded. But even as she felt the well-known surge of love and guilt, she knew she’d been tricked. She’d come to Sunda knowing what he was capable of, but she’d expected the attack to be violent. Instead he’d targeted her over-tender heart. 

Arriving at Nes six years ago, she’d had no choice but to love the infant Sigrid because loving and caring for something so tiny and helpless had been the only way to stay sane and survive. And now she were being made to transfer that forced love to Sigrid’s brother, like an ewe with a taut udder being fooled into giving its milk to another lamb.

A knock on the door kept her from saying something out loud. The serving boys entered and Sigurd was the jarl again. The mask he wore in public was firmly back in place, and only Disa was still unsettled and humiliated.

“My wife is hungry,” he said. His choice of words made Disa squirm. It suggested they’d done something which, if she’d understood him correctly, he was either incapable of, or had no interest in. “Bring us something to eat. I want skyr and cloudberries, honey and oatcakes. And blaand to drink.”

One of the boys bowed and left. The other stayed to put more wood on the fire, refill the braziers, and light the lamps that had gone out.

When the food arrived, the last thing she wanted was to eat.

“It’s all yours,” Sigurd said with a shrug. “I’m not hungry.”

Her hurt turned into anger; he was still toying with her. But she needed to keep her senses keen and keep her strength, so she accepted his offer. The skyr glistened in the lamplight as she ladled it into the bowl. It was so thick it remained in the shape of the spoon, wobbling, betraying the trembling of her hands. The berries – preserved in whey – had melted into their own juices; a thick soup of red gold that slipped along the sides of the skyr-dome in the bowl.

The berries were as much a luxury as the bed. Thrall children would have been sent out on moors and wetlands to pick enough of the elusive fruit to keep for winter. Was this another display of his power? Well, she wouldn’t let him trick her again with his words and his face. She would harden her heart and fight on. Food was a sore spot for him, and she decided to use it to her advantage.

“Here.” She pressed the bowl into his hands. She used the facial expression she’d once used to make her little brothers obey.

He grimaced. “I’m not hungry. It’s the curse. Food turns to ash in my mouth.”

“If you’re to survive, you need to eat.” She broke an oatcake in two, dipped one of the halves in honey and brought it to her mouth. She wiggled the other half in front of him.

She saw the dark in his eyes expand as she licked her lips and sucked the trickling honey from her fingers. Good, let him be angry if he wanted; better that than hurt and manipulative. She ate her half of the cake as he watched her, willing him to look away.

He pressed his lips together. It was the sort of petulant face a child might make when refusing food. It brought to her attention how boyish his face really was, despite the harsh angles and protruding bits that had been exaggerated by his illness. How strange that she hadn’t considered it before.

It wasn’t just his sparse beard. It was the faintest band of freckles over the bridge of his nose and cheekbones; the long eyelashes that were lighter at the tips than at the roots; the finely shaped bow of his mouth, all the more prominent because the very tip of his nose was upturned. Even his true voice was higher than the one he used as the jarl. He must have been a pretty boy once, before adolescence made him all disproportionate.

And yet, disproportionate wasn’t the right word, because it recalled other very tall warriors: men who were coarse and hideous, with oversized jaws and noses, and heads that seemed too small for their huge shoulders. He wasn’t like that at all. With a bit more flesh on him, he might almost pass for what some women might consider handsome.

“If you won’t eat, I’ll eat it all myself,” she threatened, to distract herself. She licked the last crumbs of her own half of the oatcake from her fingers, then brought his half slowly towards her parted lips.

He’d been watching her as keenly as she’d been watching him, but now he blinked, like someone waking up and snatched the cake from her. He ate it, then proceeded with the contents of the bowl she’d given him. She’d never seen someone eat so joylessly; chewing and swallowing as if it was a chore that needed to be done. He left some, but it was more than she’d ever seen him eat before, and his hands never shook.

She felt like she’d won a small victory at last, but she couldn’t take any joy in it. She had no idea why, but it all made her so nervous she ended up eating everything that was left and drinking a cup full of blaand, forgetting that it was as strong as wine.

*

She only knew that she had fallen asleep when she heard a girl’s voice say her name and discovered that she was back in the forest.

_Disa. Disa! You’re still here. You’re stronger than I thought. But are you strong enough to stop him?_

The voice was moving and she had to follow. The forest ended and she found herself on a plain. She saw a tree standing all on its own, surrounded by noisy crows. Dead bodies dangled from the branches. Nine of them; nine strangled brides. She couldn’t make herself look at their faces. She knew that one of them would be herself.

There was a sword stuck into the trunk of the tree, like the sword the Spear-God had left for Sigmund of the Volsungs to remove. The sword that had eventually been reforged for Sigmund’s son Sigurd. 

_You know what you have to do._

But she wouldn’t touch it; she hated swords like she hated warriors.

The voice laughed. _What a silly girl you are, Disa! Well, if you can’t do it like that, you’ll have to change._

She felt her fingers itch. She stared at her hands, watching them change. The fingers shortened, the skin grew covered in hair. Her nails became claws. Soon she was on all fours: she had become the lynx she’d seen in an earlier dream.

*

“Dís?” This time, it wasn’t the girl’s voice, but a man’s. 

She growled low in response. She felt her body coil tightly, waiting for him to appear so she could—

Something touched her shoulder and she pounced. Her teeth snapped together, closing on nothing. She opened her eyes and noticed that she was curled up on her side. Sigurd was watching her.

“You should have woken me.” She coughed and cleared her throat. Her mouth tasted foul from all the sweet things she’d eaten. How long had she slept? Had he been watching her all the time?

“I worried I’d frighten you. You were making the strangest sounds. I suppose you were having a nightmare.”

He didn’t mention her almost biting him. Had it really happened, or was it all a dream? Was she, too, going mad now?

“Tell me about your dream,” he said.

“I don’t remember.” It was almost the truth; it was already fading away. Soon she would forget all about it.

He shrugged. Neither of them said anything. The silence was like the heavy darkness beyond their meagre light.

“Will you tell me another story?” she asked. The only other option was to talk, and she didn’t want to hear more about him, or having him know more about her. Not tonight.

He nodded. His untied hair fell around his face as he let his head hang for a moment. She could almost feel the heaviness in his limbs. The fright he’d given her had made her wide awake, but he was tired. He straightened up and smoothed back his hair. “What do you want to hear?”

“No more heroes. Tell me about a woman.”

He tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, slowly, as if his mind was on other things. "I'll tell you about my nurse's namesake," he said after a while. He leaned back and looked up at the folds and shadows of the canopy.

"They called her Deirdre of the Sorrows." The weariness was gone from his voice. His eyes were closed and his face relaxed. He paused briefly, preparing to launch into his tale. The soft light gentled the sharp angles of his features. Disa had to look away; to see him like this felt too intimate. "For it had been foretold that she would cause kings to fight each other and heroes to be exiled," he continued, and soon she, too, was lost in the spell of his voice. 

She saw the scenes he described inside her mind’s eye: the beautiful girl brought up in seclusion; the handsome warrior she was fated to love; how she’d fled with him and his brothers to a foreign land; the cruel king who wanted her for his own; the death of her beloved; and finally her own death as she threw herself from the king’s chariot rather than be his bride.

She fell asleep wrapped up in his voice. This time there were no dreams.

*

She opened her eyes to find Sigurd standing in the middle of the room. It was morning and he was getting ready to leave. One of the boys handed him his jewellery, first the bracelets, then his rings. He was tying back his hair when he noticed that she was awake. In the low sunlight shining through the open window, his hair was like freshly cut alder wood, all red and yellow hues.

“You seemed tired,” he said, the answer to a question she hadn’t asked. “I thought you needed your sleep.”

She sat up and hugged her knees through the thick layers of blankets and furs. “And what about you?”

He motioned for the boys to leave. “What about me?” He came closer, but when she backed away, he stopped. He picked up a cloak and held it in front of him, thrown over his arm.

She recognised that cloak, that raven clasp. It was the one he’d lent her on their first night together. It was his ólpa, she realised – the short cloak a man wore for riding and sailing. It had been a foot-length garment for her, enough to completely hide her body.

“Have you slept?” she asked, because she didn’t know what to say about the cloak. Of course it was his. Everything in this room was his. Everything on this island was his.

“Of course not.” He bit his lip, pausing before he continued. “Someone was killed on one of my farms on the mainland. It means this curse is spreading and I need to go there. I’ll rest later.”

She wondered when later might be. Daylight was so brief even the shortest trip meant he wouldn’t come back until after nightfall. She began nervously winding her plait around the fingers of one hand. “What do you want me to do?”

“You’re free to do whatever you want to do. You’re not a prisoner, and you’re not a servant.”

“No, I mean—”

“There’s nothing you can do about that. There seems to be nothing I can do either, come to think of it, but it’s expected of me to pretend. I’ll take some of the warriors with me, and I’ll tell the people we’ll catch whatever did it. Hopefully that’ll calm them for a bit.”

He threw the cloak over his shoulder and picked up his sword. He unrolled the belt, which was still wrapped around the sheath, and strapped it to his hips. Then he put his cloak on properly.

“I’ll return tonight,” he said and grabbed his spear. He looked different from a moment ago, his face hard and his spine rigid. Her night companion was fading away like mist at noon, and the warrior – the jarl – was taking his place. She pulled the covers further up, hiding as much as she could of her body.

He stepped back and disappeared into the shadows beyond the sunlight. “Go back to sleep, my Dís,” he said, and in his voice there was none of the warrior harshness, only a gentle darkness like the one at the end of a long day. “Everything will be better when you wake up. Perhaps you’ll find that you’re the one dreaming, not I, and that I’m nothing but a nightmare.”

The door opened and closed, and he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dísir - minor deities or mythological beings related to destiny/fate and fertility. Dís could also mean goddess or female supernatural being in general.
> 
> Monstrous wolf - according to Old Norse mythology, monstrous wolves would have important parts to play at the end of days. The sun and the moon will be eaten by the wolves that have been chasing them since the beginning of time. Then, the father of those wolves, the terrible Fenrir/Fenrisúlfr, will be free, and will eventually kill Óðinn. 
> 
> Šuš, Pâthragâda, and Pārsa (Susa, Pasargadae, and Persepolis) - Ancient Persian cities.
> 
> King of all Kings - a title used by Persian monarchs, especially during the Achaemenid and Sasanian Empires.
> 
> Rom - Rome
> 
> Kourosh - Cyrus II of Persia (Cyrus the Great) c. 600 – 530 BC. The founder of the Achaemenid Empire, the first Persian Empire.
> 
> Daryush - Darius I of Persia (Darius the Great) c. 550–486 BC. The third Persian King of Kings of the Achaemenid Empire, who ruled it at its peak.
> 
> Skyr - Cultured dairy product, somewhere between cheese and yogurt.
> 
> Blaand - An alcoholic drink made from fermented whey.
> 
> Cloudberries (Rubus chamaemorus) - An edible, amber-coloured berry similar to blackberries.
> 
> And the companion post (for those who want to know more about how I wrote this) is [here](https://ceceril.dreamwidth.org/8467.html).


	10. Look Closer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the end notes, there's a glossary and a link to a companion post.
> 
> **Spoilery warnings:** This chapter contains non-consensual scrying and elements of something like body swap or body sharing (some sort of wearing down of the boundaries that normally keep one person's mind separate from that of another, if that makes sense).

***

When Disa woke up again, the lower window was shut. The sky visible through the smoke filtering out through the gable window was a deep blue. Another day had gone by without her having caught more than a fleeting glimpse of the sun. She was becoming as nocturnal as her husband.

She had a vague memory of a dream: a voice talking to her, egging her on to do something. She looked at the opposite wall as she tried to remember. Her eyes caught on one of the tapestries. She was almost certain it hadn’t been there before, and it was all too easy to shift her attention to that. She wrapped herself in one of the blankets and went to look at it.

One glance told her that it had come from the mistress’ loom. It wasn’t just the skill with which it had been made, but the choice of motif: scenes from the stories of the Volsungar. Unlike the more popular ones about Sigurd the Dragonslayer and his complicated lovelife, this one was all about the early life of Sigurd’s father, Sigmund.

There was Sigmund, pulling the sword Gram out of the tree at his twin sister Signy’s wedding; Sigmund and his eight brothers, shackled by Signy’s jealous husband and being devoured by a monstrous she-wolf; Sigmund being saved by Signy; Signy sending her sons to Sigmund for him to test their bravery and ability to withstand pain; and, finally, Signy seducing her own brother to produce a perfect warrior son who was all Volsung. 

The border that surrounded the whole horrid thing consisted of wolves and wolf-headed warriors dancing and brandishing spears. The grisly tale of Sigmund and his and Signy’s son Sinfjotli – both of them now cursed to turn into wolves – no doubt continued on another tapestry, but she couldn’t see it anywhere. The sound of steps made her hurry back to bed.

A girl entered, carrying a tray of food. She wasn’t one of the servants who’d waited on her before. This one was small and pretty, plump like a sparrow. 

“Your breakfast, mistress,” she said as she placed her burden on the chest next to the bed. “I’m sorry I’m so late! I usually care for my grandfather, but your girls were too frightened to stay, so Thora – you know Thora, the housekeeper? – asked me to help out.”

She had brought porridge, herring, bread, and even an apple. It was more than enough for one person. The smile dimpling the girl’s previously timid face suggested that Disa’s amazement had shown.

“The master came by as I was preparing this and said to make sure to feed you properly.” She spoke with the lilting accent of the north. “And you’ve kept him alive! I’m sure everything will be well now. At least that’s what grandfather tells me, and he knows everything. Or he thinks he does.”

Disa sat up. “I’ve seen you before. But I don’t remember…” She’d never been good with faces.

“It can’t be easy. So many new people! I’m Kata, Sigvard’s daughter. My grandfather is Sibbi the thul. He blessed your marriage.”

The thul! Now that was interesting. 

“You’re his helper. You and your… sister?”

“My aunt,” Kata said, with the patience of someone who’d explained it all before. “Alfhild is the youngest of his daughters.”

“Do you think I could talk to your grandfather?”

Kata smiled. It seemed she did it when she was confused as well as when she was genuinely amused. “Grandfather? Why? He’s so old and tired. These last months have worn him out. He spends all day indoors, by his hearth. I wouldn’t want to tire him.”

There was an awkward pause before Kata spoke again. “Birsa Half-Finn came by,” she said. “She said to tell you she won’t see you until tonight.” She frowned as she spoke, plucking at one of her plaits, perhaps worrying that she’d forget the details of the message she’d been tasked with.

“Half-Finn?” Disa hadn’t guessed. 

“The blacksmith’s sister. Their mother was a Finn. You didn’t know?” Her round, blue eyes grew even rounder when Disa’s expression told her that she hadn’t. “That’s why she’s much-knowing, I suppose. Are you also like that?”

When Disa shook her head, Kata was taken aback. “Really? Oh! I thought all foreign women were.” She tilted her head, really looking. “And I’ve never seen someone quite as foreign as you. You’re so pretty! No wonder he… Well, everyone says he always had a thing for the dark-haired ones.” Then another thought seemed to occur to her. “Is your skin always that colour, or does it get even darker in summer?”

When Disa didn’t reply, she went on. “I’m sorry. I ask such stupid things. It’s just that I’ve never been anywhere but here and my parents farm, and I don’t know anything about the world. Men see all sorts of things on their travels.” A certain wistfulness crept into her tone. “Women just move from one farm to another to marry, and that’s all. I would love to go places. It’s not bad here – at least it didn’t use to be – but…”

“Travel isn’t all it’s made out to be,” Disa said.

Kata bobbed her head. “I’m sure you’re right, mistress. Now I’ll leave you to your food. I’ll be back soon, to help you dress. The master was annoyed you were still wearing Hravnhild’s clothes. He told Thora to find you something, and why hadn’t she done so already.”

She left, and Disa was alone again, free to eat her breakfast and consider what she’d learned last night: there really was something out there. She would have to examine the window from the outside and make absolutely sure it wasn’t just the branches.

Birsa had said that it was Sigurd’s hugr out there, but she didn’t believe it. It made no sense.

*

She had almost finished eating when Kata returned, half-running and carrying a heap of clothes, including the red wedding finery and a roll of white that looked like it might be a proper linen veil. Her cheeks had taken on the colour of the wedding gown, but her smiling mouth had puckered into a tense bud.

“The mistress – I mean, the master’s mother – is performing the seið tonight.” She was out of breath, as if she’d run all the way through the hall. “You’ll have to wear the red one again. We must all look our best.”

“I thought she’d seiðed enough already.” Disa began to feel as uneasy as Kata looked. There was enough mischief at Sunda already, without performing a ceremony made to attract more of it. 

“Yes, but things have changed. Thora told me the mistress said there had to be another one, because you’re the ninth bride and you must be the last. She needs to know exactly how you’re meant to cure him.” She leaned in. “Now please, please, let me help you with your clothes and hair. I’m needed elsewhere, you see. We’ve been cleaning the hall, because the mistress said it was a disgrace, and we have to smooth the clothes for tonight.”

By the time Disa was ready, Kata was eager to leave. “If you come with me, I’ll get one of the men to light your way to the women’s house,” she said. “You’ll be comfortable there until the master returns.”

There were few things Disa cared for less than being left in the jarl’s chambers, but if she couldn’t investigate outdoors, she would have to settle for indoors. She needed to be alone for that. 

“I’ll stay here,” she said, pushing in a hairpin that was already falling out. Kata was clearly more at home combing beards than with the coiffures of aristocratic women, because the unnecessarily tall mound she’d built out of Disa’s hair was already threatening to topple. “Unless I’m also needed elsewhere?”

“You could come and sit with us in the linen room and…” Kata’s voice petered off, then she made a sound of distress. “Oh, mistress! You don’t want to be here on your own, do you? It’s a nasty, eerie place! You don’t have to be here, unless it’s with the master.” She joined her hands in a gesture of supplication. “We’re so grateful for you being here, but—”

“I’ll be fine. I’ll just wait here for…” Disa swallowed, as if choked by a lie. “For my husband.”

Kata smiled, but it was only with her mouth. Her blue eyes looked dark. “Of course, mistress, if that’s what you really want. There are men in the hall and I’ll be with Thora and a few of the girls in the linen room if you need me. I’ll light a few more lamps for you, shall I?”

“Yes, please. It’s so dark in here.”

“I could come and sit with you,” Kata said once she’d lit the last lamp and there was nothing more for her to do.

“No, you go and help Thora. If there’s anything, I’ll send for you.” Disa returned her attention to her hair. She replaced a few of the pins, adjusted the red-and-gold fillet, and made sure the pleats and folds of the linen veil framed her hair, showing as much of it as possible. 

Kata looked as if she didn’t know what to do. In the end, she left. The expression on her face was so much like that of a mistreated puppy Disa almost called her back.

*

The door closed and Disa waited, making sure Kata wasn’t returning. Then she took a resinous stick from the fire and brought it with her as she climbed the ladder to the lower window. She tested the shutters. The bolt wouldn’t give. Reassured, she inspected the window frame. There were no marks on the inside. But there wouldn’t be, would there? It wasn’t Sigurd who clawed at the window to get out; it was something that wanted _in_.

She undid the bolt and opened the window a fraction. The flame danced in the draught, threatening to go out or set fire to her veil. She stilled for a moment. When she dared to lean forward to look outside, she found scratch marks. Something had left them there, and it wasn’t the warden tree, whose branches were a good two arms’ lengths away. She shut the window, bolted it, and made her way down as fast as she could. 

So there really was a beast. What was she supposed to do about that? She decided to continue her investigations indoors. Surely, if there were a place where she might find a clue as to the nature of the curse, it would be here, in the jarl’s overstuffed chambers. 

She opened the chest closest at hand. It was filled with tunics worthy of a lord; there was nothing in there that wasn’t dyed and trimmed with silk or embroidered with metal thread. She touched the garments longingly, taking pleasure in the quality of the cloth and in the seamstress’ skill.

The next one contained coats: heavy woollen fabrics stiff with braiding and embroidery. Now she noticed what she’d failed to take into account before. Whilst beautiful, everything was also slightly old-fashioned, like things that might have belonged to one of the Volsungar themselves.

Bags of bog myrtle and wild rosemary had been packed between the clothes to keep moths away. She held one of the bags to her nose and inhaled the scent of summer, and, strangely enough, of Sigurd. It was less than a week since she first met him, and yet the scent instantly recalled glimpses of wrists she hadn’t even realised she’d been paying attention to, of silken red-gold hair, and yellow cat-eyes. She put the bag back where she had found it and hurriedly closed the chest.

She turned her attention to the ones lining the walls. There, she found clothes and linens, tools and utensils; things that told her nothing at all about the curse, but reinforced her first impression of a burial chamber fully equipped for the next world. There were treasures, too, wonderful things she could have spent all evening examining. Sets of cups and various vessels made of glass and metal; jewellery; silk from Serkland and beyond; even a box made of perfumed wood containing tears of real frankincense.

Then there was only one chest left. It was ornately carved and she was certain it had to contain something even more fantastic. She opened it with a giddy sense of anticipation. Inside was a dark cloth, which she unfolded to find pieces of wood carved with runes. Underneath was a fur that turned out to be a rolled-up wolf skin. She should have put it all back, closed the chest, and hoped he wouldn’t notice that she’d been prying, but she couldn’t stop herself from going through the entire thing. 

There was a pendant made of what she presumed was a wolf’s tooth, smooth and cold in her hand. She found a lock of blond hair, tied with a piece of yarn. A small bag contained fragments of burnt bone, seeds, and other nameless things. Disgusted, she wiped her hands on the wolf skin. She was about to put it all away, when the sound of something scratching at the window interrupted her. She didn’t allow herself the time to be afraid. She ran through the antechamber and out through the door leading into the enclosure she’d only ever seen from the outside. She craned her neck, staring up at the roof. But there was nothing.

She would have gone back inside, but in the middle of the courtyard, cradled in the darkness of the palissade, stood a miniature, more ornate version of the hall itself. It was a hof, a building sacred to the gods. The door was ajar, drawing a line of golden light in the darkness, like a line pulling her in. She stood stock still for a moment, knowing that she shouldn’t. Then she did it anyway.

She stopped just outside the door. The scent that filled her nostrils almost made her back away. It was like the breath of a dragon against the crispness of the night: blood, fire, enclosed air. Covering her mouth and nose with her hand, she peered inside a red-tinged gloaming. In the middle was a hearth, where red flames danced around dragon-shaped fire dogs. Along the opposite wall stood the wooden effigies from the wedding, decked out in fine cloth and hung with jewellery. The unseeing gems of their eyes glittered in the flickering light, making them seem hungry.

Something lay on the floor in front of them. Through the narrow gap, it was difficult to make out. At first, she thought it a heap of clothes. Then she noticed long, reddish hair and a wrist with a silver bracelet as thick as a manacle. She was about to back away when a shadow moved. A man appeared, a helmeted warrior with a spear in his hand. He was turned away from her, his face unseen. She almost stopped breathing. The warrior stilled too. He crouched next to Sigurd, leaning over him for a moment. She thought she heard him whisper. With his back still towards her, he disappeared from view again. Disa ran.

In the jarl's chambers, the contents of the last chest were strewn on the floor, a tell-tale sign of her nosiness. Frantically, she began to cram it all back. Something fell out of the wolfskin: a small disk. She turned it over. It was a mirror, so small it fitted into her palm. Rather than polished metal, it was made of silver-coated glass. Something about the little thing compelled her. Enchanted by the glimpse of a face, she went to a lamp. She needed to look closer.

In the yellow light, her own self was so clear that it was as though she were seeing herself from outside, through someone else's eyes. She saw a face that was thinner than she’d expected, and sallow, its winter paleness framed by untidy curls. The eyebrows were the same as always, as if drawn on with a thumb dipped in charcoal, but the nose was more prominent, and the mouth harder. It was no longer a girl’s face, but a woman’s. Though the rest of the features were nothing alike, the eyes were so much like her mother’s it made her throat ache: heavy-lidded, thick-lashed, and an indeterminate colour that could be anything from the green-brown of a river in spring, to black.

A cold draught made the flame dance and the image flicker. She wasn’t alone. She hadn’t heard the doors open, or heard steps; nothing to tell her if her visitor had two legs, or four. She only had a feeling of something drawing closer. The scent of the night filled her nostrils. She stared at the mirror-woman, at her wide-open eyes, and felt as if the fear she saw belonged to someone else. 

A shadow appeared, towering above the mirror-woman. It was as if she’d called it into being, having conjured it in the glass. The scent engulfed her. He was behind her, his chin somewhere above the top of her head and his arms rising to enclose her. The cold trapped in his clothes made it feel as if it wasn’t a man holding her, but something disembodied. 

“Tell me what you’re seeing.” His hands were like ice. There was red encrusted in his fingernails.

“I don’t see anything. Only myself. Please—”

“Look closer.”

“I—”

“Look closer.” 

She tried to swallow, but her mouth was dry. In the glass, the mirror-woman was gone, and it was like watching dancing smoke, or churning waters. She refused to look at it.

“I don’t see anything. I know nothing about these things.”

He leaned over her, using his face to nudge her back towards the mirror. She felt him poke against the mound of her hair, then lower, so that she could feel the warmth of his breath through the gauze of the veil against her temple, her cheek, her ear. Next, there was another sound, something that wasn’t him. It was like someone chattering away just out of earshot. Then she was falling, though she was standing up, and the sound in her ears was the rush of air.

“You’re not the one you used to be.” It was the same voice he’d used when he told her stories, only more. More of whatever it was that had drawn images inside her head and made her feel whatever the characters of the stories were feeling. “You are part of me now, as I am part of you. Look again, with my powers. Look.”

She struggled in his arms. She only surrendered once the hushed words became clearer, almost intelligible; once she could no longer resist the temptation. She looked.

“A raven,” she whispered, seeing the black bird through the mists. The words kept coming, but it was like the dreams she’d been having; the images were gone and forgotten as soon as she had uttered the words. “A raven flies over the hall, followed by seven sparrows. And, oh… A second raven. This one lands. And the wolf that guards the door falls. The wolf is dead and the raven and the bear feast on it…”

She blinked, dizzy. His hands were cupped around hers, which were cupped around the mirror. He pressed her hands together, leaving the mirror flat between her palms, hidden from her sight.

_You are part of me now, as I’m part of you._

The words echoed in her head, reverberating like the sound of a cymbal. She stared at the small hands enclosed in the larger, paler ones, and she had the oddest feeling of sliding, or detaching. And all the time she was hearing their breaths, their heartbeat. The sounds were melding. One breath, where there had been two. One heartbeat. He was inside her, or perhaps she was inside him. 

She became conscious of a tiredness so enormous it was like the one she’d experienced during her first months at Nes, when all she wanted to do was to sleep. There was bodily pain, and the keener pain that was shame. Then there were denser concentrations of thought, like flecks of foam on a river: a woman with the mirror-woman’s face, except prettier and endlessly fascinating; the mistress; and a shadow that was a girl but also something else. 

She pulled her hands against her chest, or perhaps he did. His followed, so that he ended up embracing her. He leaned over her again to press his cheek against her piled-up hair. Being so tightly entwined allowed her, at last, to determine what was her and what was him. They were separate beings again. She gasped for breath, as if she’d been underwater.

“Forgive me, my Dís,” he whispered somewhere above her ear. She was still gasping, still feeling as if she wasn’t completely moored in her body. “Truly. I thought… But you’ve only seen what I’ve already seen. You saw with my eyes and my knowledge, that’s all. That’s all.”

He pried the mirror from her fingers, gently, just before her legs gave way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Volsungar - A mythical clan or dynasty, named after its founder, Volsung. For a concise summary of the Völsunga saga (the 14th century version of the earlier stories), please refer to [Wikipedia](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/V%C3%B6lsunga_saga). 
> 
> Kata - From Katr, meaning happy.
> 
> Alfhild - From alf-, meaning elf, and -hild, meaning battle.
> 
> Sibbi - Short or affectiote form of Sigbiǫrn, from sig- meaning victory and -biǫrn meaning bear.
> 
> Thul - A member of the court whose precise role is uncertain but probably had to do with the preservation of knowledge of the past and the judging of present statements against it. Known as thyle in Old English.
> 
> Finn - Norse name for the Sami of northern (and at that time, central) Scandinavia.
> 
> Seið - Ritual practice to see or change the future using spirit helpers. Chiefly practised by women. Although men could do it, it was considered shameful for them to do so.
> 
> Bog myrtle (Myrica gale) - Fragrant deciduous shrub. The scent is sweet and resinous and it was traditionally used to flavour alcoholic drinks and as an insect repellent.
> 
> Wild rosemary (Rhododendron tomentosum) - Evergreen shrub with strongly smelling flowers, traditionally used in alcoholic drinks, folk rememdies, and as an insect repellent.
> 
> Frankincense - Aromatic resin obtained from trees of the genus Boswellia. Used for incense. Most frankincense comes from Somalia and India, but also Oman, Yemen, and western Africa.
> 
> Hof - A temple/cult house.
> 
> And the companion post is [here](https://ceceril.dreamwidth.org/8799.html).


	11. The Seið

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** ritual drug use, unsafe cosmetics (lead white) use, and effects of starvation.
> 
> Please see the end notes for a glossary and a companion post.

***

Before she could reach the floor, she was in Sigurd’s arms, cradled as uncomfortably in his cold, angular embrace as if she’d been left as a sacrifice in the winter-bare branches of a tree. She felt no fear. It was only as he lowered her onto the bed, into its plush nest of blankets and furs, that she heard herself whine. They had been one. For a moment, they had been more closely joined than lovers, and to be apart was agony. She wanted the harsh solace of his body more than she wanted to be safe and warm. She tried to hold on to him, but he slipped away, as sleek as a cat escaping the hand that wanted to pet it.

She had to subject herself to being covered in a blanket and tucked in like a child. There was nothing she could do about it; she was too tired to open her eyes. She gathered her strength and tried to reach for him a final time, struggling to get her hand out from under the blanket. He made a sound like a sigh. There was a pause, during which she could almost feel his unease as he considered what to do. 

A moment later, there was another layer covering her, a heavy pelt that made her sink deeper into the bed, and into herself again. She felt fur as soft as dandelion fluff touch her jaw. She relaxed, drifting off into a peaceful golden sensation in which she floated like leaf. At some point, the door opened to let in the serving boys. It was only once they’d gone that she began to properly wake up. She was too warm. The fur throw was gone, as if she’d shrugged it off in her sleep.

The sound of water made her open her eyes. Sigurd stood near the hearth, naked from the waist up, washing. He was turned away from her. For the first time, she saw more of her husband’s body than his hands and his neck. He had broad, bony shoulders, and a torso so thin his ribs stood out like knuckles on a fist. That much had been evident even when he was fully clothed. Now something else was revealed to her: there were bruises and scratches all over him, like on a thrall who’d had the dogs set on him.

She had no idea what he’d done to himself. Had the man in the hof done something to him? It made her so uncomfortable she turned away, feeling as if her gawking was as much an overstepping of boundaries as whatever had left him looking like that. She was so disconcerted she couldn’t hide in almost-sleep, but remained alert and waiting, listening as he dried himself and dressed. 

“We should join the others,” he said. “They’ll be expecting us by now.”

She scrambled to sit up, almost tearing off her crumpled veil in the process. He was standing by the bed, and she hadn't heard him move at all. He was wearing one of the coats she’d just seen in a chest, a lovely garment dyed a rich green that made his hair look redder. By now, it could have been wrapped all the way around his narrow frame. 

“I shouldn’t have looked through your things,” she said.

He sat down on the side of the bed, facing away from her. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his thighs. “I shouldn’t have made you look in the glass. I thought that since you’d found it, you were meant to see something important. But you’ve never done it before and you have no talent for it.” 

“No.”

“It is better like that. Safer.” He turned towards her. Like this, she could see that his coat was trimmed with fine braiding made of gold thread and horse hair. The pattern depicted creatures with the bodies of men and the heads of wolves, brandishing spears, just as on the mistress’ tapestry. “You saw me. Outside.”

She nodded.

“You shouldn’t have gone out. Not in the dark, alone.”

“But I wanted to see.”

“What? Me?”

“ _It_. The thing. I heard it.”

He didn’t even attempt to hide his shudder. “You don’t want to see it.”

“I saw the marks on the window.”

He straightened up again, his expression uncannily similar to the wide-eyed look of an alarmed cat. “You want to end up like Ragnar the skald? Gods, his face! He looked like something had scared him to death before it…” He refused to say more.

“But what were you doing?” Not so long ago, she wouldn’t have dared to ask. She felt as if she’d aged years in the days she’d been here.

“Later. I trust we’ll have more to discuss about after the seið. Better to do all the talking at once.” He got up, then stopped. “That grim old thing is back.” He nodded towards the tapestry. “Did she have it put up?”

“I haven’t seen your mother today.”

“It’s part of a set she gave me before she left to remarry, so that I would never forget the greatness of my ancestors.” He snorted. “Some ancestors! I hid the horrid things in a loft somewhere, but she must have found this one.”

He went and tore the tapestry from the wall. For a moment, it looked like he’d throw it in the fire. Then he tossed it into a corner.

“I’ll fetch a girl to help you tidy yourself,” he said, just before he opened the door. “Then we need to go. Mother will seið after the evening meal and she doesn’t like to be kept waiting.” His jaw tensed, as if he was biting something. “She snaps her fingers, and we all have to come running, like well-trained dogs.”

*

Once they’d all finished eating, the servants rearranged the benches of the hall to face the high seat.

“Mother wants a spectacle,” Sigurd said, as he and Disa seated themselves on the bench just below. “And a spectacle she shall have.”

She’d never heard anyone speak so flippantly about the seið. But of course, men didn’t like it. It was something they couldn’t control; something powerful that belonged only to women.

The thul, accompanied by Kata and her aunt, sat down at Sigurd’s right side. They were joined by the warriors, then the rest of the people of Sunda. The servants began to put out the lights and bank the hearths. Gradually, the shadows that had lurked at the edges of the hall engulfed everything.

“Is it your first time?” Sigurd asked in a whisper.

She nodded, careful to hide behind her veil and not meet his eyes, not even in the dark. It was almost true; she’d never seen the seið since arriving at Nes. As Sigrid was yet too small to witness it, there had never been any need for her to attend.

“Whatever happens, just stay calm. You’re not still faint, are you?”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you cold?” He sounded concerned. He must still be feeling guilty about before, why else would he keep treating her as if she were some delicate maiden? It didn’t displease her; it meant she had the upper hand. “I could get a boy to fetch a cloak for you.”

She shook her head. She would have replied with words, but the warrior seated next to her moved closer, to accommodate a latecomer. She moved away from him and ended up with her arm squeezed against Sigurd’s. Their fingers touched. He probably thought she’d moved closer to him because she was afraid of what was to come. He pressed her fingers, just once, then let go.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered, so softly she almost didn’t hear him. “I won’t let anything happen to you.” 

He stood. His men followed. He cleared his throat and began to sing. She’d heard this type of singing before, and the memory of it was enough to make her stomach knot. It seemed barely human: a guttural rumble from deep in his throat that made her breastbone vibrate. The men joined in. Someone began beating on a shield.

The singing grew louder, wilder, made worse by the darkness. The man next to her, almost as tall as Sigurd, switched into a voice so high and shrill it made her want to cover her ears. It never mingled with the chants of the others, but dipped in and out of it, like a needle sewing silver thread into a dark cloth.

Light appeared at the other end of the hall, called forth by the men. Disa turned and saw the mistress making her way through the lower hall from the female end of the house. Carrying her staff and was draped in a dark cloak lined with fur, she wasn’t just the mistress now, but the vǫlva: the seer. Her hair fell loose around her white face, making her as ageless as the Lady herself. Behind her came women dressed in the pristine white linen shifts Thora and the girls had spent all day smoothing. Like the mistress, they wore their hair unbound and their faces painted into ghostly masks. Among them was Birsa. When the mistress approached the high seat, the warriors fell silent and sat down again.

Thora rose. “Welcome, my lady,” she said, bowing deeply. “Come, sit down.”

The mistress took her place in the high seat as the women gathered around her. She settled more comfortably, spreading her legs wide, like a man. Then she tapped her staff against the floor. A servant placed a brazier in front of her and handed her a leather pouch. She put some of its contents in a cup, then emptied the rest of it over the hot coal. As the scent of it reached the spectators, Disa gagged. The smoke was a hag’s breath of hemp, henbane, and the gods knew what else.

The mistress drank from the cup, and passed it to one of the women, who lifted it to her lips then passed it onto the next, until they had all drunk. The mistress tapped her staff again, then slowly began to caress it, moving her hands up and down, as if pleasuring it. Next to Disa, Sigurd shifted in his seat. She felt him move his arm, perhaps to cover his eyes.

Into the silence that ensued, the mistress poured her song. It was a high-pitched beckoning, like the ones girls used to call the cows home. But this was meant to lure in the invisible helpers and needed to be heard through the mists and vales that separated the different realms nestled around the world-tree Yggdrasil. It could never be anything but eerie.

It had started high, but now it fell, going deeper, until it rose and died out high again. When the mistress began anew, still caressing the staff, the women around her joined in. While their song grew stronger, the mistress’ voice faded. She let go of the staff and gripped the armrests hard, as if afraid of falling. Her head tilted back. The smoke wafted at her face, wreaths of it rising around her.

The beckoning ended. The women paused for breath before they began to sing again. A sound like the rattling of keys was heard, accompanying the words. At first, Disa thought they were singing in another tongue, but then she grasped that it was an ancient song, passed down through generations.

Once the final word rang out, the mistress slumped in her seat, the staff resting against her crotch. Her chin dropped to her chest and her hair veiled her features. The smoke billowed about her then faded as the last of the seeds and herbs were consumed by the embers. Below, the people of Sunda waited, huddled together in the darkness.

Disa thought she could hear the muffled sounds of wings somewhere, as if a great number of birds had perched on the roof, like jackdaws gathering to roost at dusk. But what birds flew at this time of night? No, she had to be imagining things. It was the smoke, just the smoke. She wished the lamps would be lit again; that the fires in the hearths would be reawakened from their slumber. She moved a little closer to Sigurd.

The air in the hall was cooling. The smoke was gone, and in its place was a subtle tension where the light surrounding the mistress met the dark. There was a shimmer, the way air seemed to dance on hot days. It gave the mistress’ white face a lustre like mother-of-pearl behind her golden hair. She looked barely human as she straightened up, her hand firmly around the staff again, and opened her mouth. But before she could speak, her body went lax. Her head lolled back. The curtain of her hair parted, revealing her unconscious face. The shimmer was gone. Then someone else cried out. It was Birsa.

“Lift her,” Birsa said in a raspy voice that wasn’t her own. “Lift her or she won’t see anything.”

“Thiostolf, Styrbiorn, do as she says,” Sigurd said. Two tall warriors that had been sitting close to him rose and went to the sleeping mistress. They stopped, hesitating. “Birsa, not my mother!” Sigurd said. “There’s something speaking through her. It must be obeyed.”

They did as they were told, joining their arms into a seat and lifting Birsa between them. Birsa’s eyes had been shut; now she opened them again.

“Sigurd,” a voice said. It wasn’t the same as before. This one was high-pitched; a young girl’s voice. Disa had heard it before, but at first she couldn’t quite say when, or where. “Sigurd Jarl! Why did you abandon me? I was wronged! I was murdered, and my killer is here, in your hall!”

Disa felt his body tense, but when he spoke, his voice was low and commanding. “Who?” he asked. “Tell me, and I swear you will have justice.”

Birsa shivered. She opened her mouth a few times, and at first, no sound came. Then came lots of sound, lots of voices crowding out of her. She turned to Disa. Her eyes were open so wide the whites were visible above the irises.

“Flee!” she shrieked, and it was the sound of several girls all at once. “Don’t be a fool, like we were. You’ve married a dead man, and soon you’ll be dead too! Don’t trust him. He casts a long shadow, and it kills!”

Disa grabbed Sigurd’s sleeve, feeling as if her heart was about to beat its way out of the confines of her chest. She let go almost immediately, as the words sank in.

In front of her, Birsa’s eyelids were flagging. “She is tired now,” she whispered, in one long sigh. It was the voice from the beginning. “I’ve ridden this mare too hard; I’ve worn her out. She is sinking.”

Birsa sagged between the men holding her. With her eyes closed and her face unguarded, she looked too vulnerable. Seeing her like that was insufferable, and Disa was about to rise when Biarni appeared, his face twisted into a snarl. He moved like the bear that was his namesake. With a roar, he snatched the unconscious Birsa from the warriors. 

The men backed away, looking from Biarni to Sigurd. Disa couldn’t see Biarni’s features, but she had the feeling that if she had, she would have learned what it was like to face one of the bear warriors in battle. His shoulders were high and tense, as if he were about to pounce, even though he still had Birsa in his arms.

Before something terrible could happen, Sigurd finally reacted. “Biarni,” he said. “That’s enough.”

Biarni turned around. His face was pale. He’d bared his teeth and his nostrils were flared. He looked like a crazed animal, like he didn’t know what he was doing.

Sigurd rose. “They were holding her,“ he said. He stepped closer, carefully, like a man approaching a dog that might attack. “That’s all. They weren’t going to do anything to her as soon as she was senseless.”

There was silence again. Everyone waited. Biarni was a huge man, very nearly as tall as Sigurd, and twice as broad. His shoulders moved as he breathed, each gulp of air a seemingly painful gasp. 

“It’s me you should be angry with,” Sigurd said. “Will you challenge me?”

Biarni made a sound as if he had been wounded. He closed his eyes. As he did, he seemed to shrink. Finally, he shook his head.

“Then take her with you, and let her maid put her to bed. She’s exhausted.”

As Biarni left, carrying his sleeping sister, the women began to sing again. One of them was playing on a pipe. Lamps and torches were lit and the fires were rekindled. With the light came heat to replace the freezing cold. One of the warriors who had carried Birsa kissed the woman closest to him. Unlike Birsa, she was fully awake and responded readily, her body grinding into his.

Some of the women wandered out into the audience, singing and dancing. With the mistress asleep in the high seat, the chaos and licentiousness that followed the seið was unfolding. The tension had to be released. The temporary order had to break down so that the old one could be restored. Disa felt her instinctive unease mingle with a weird longing. It was the smoke, just the smoke.

“Let’s go.” Sigurd grabbed her hand. His face looked like something carved out of stone, but his hand was finally warm where it had closed around hers. “There’s no need for you to be exposed to this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seið - Ritual practice to see or change the future using spirit helpers. Chiefly practised by women. Although men could do it, it was considered shameful for them to do so.
> 
> Vǫlva - Staff-carrier or wand-carrier. A female seer who performed the seið and had specialised ritual knowledge. Yes, it's pronounced somewhere between Volvo and vulva. Victorian prudes anglicised it as "vala", but honestly.
> 
> Skald - A poet at the court of a king or noble. Their poetry detailed the deeds of their patron.
> 
> Yggdrasil - Literally Oðinn's horse, a kenning (a kind of metaphor) for gallows. The world tree.
> 
> Bear warrior (Berserkr/berserkir. Berserkr is the singular, berserkir the plural). Fearsome warriors thought to either "shift" and become bears, or enter a sort of trance-like state as they fought.
> 
> Thiostolf - From þjóstr, meaning violence and ulfR, meaning wolf.
> 
> Styrbiorn - From styrr, meaning noise or battle and biǫrn, meaning bear.
> 
> To listen to something like the singing mentioned in this chapter, google kulning or laling ([here's](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KvtT3UyhibQ) one example). 
> 
> And the companion post is [here](https://ceceril.dreamwidth.org/9091.html).


	12. The Price of a Secret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See the end notes for a glossary and a companion post.

**PART SIX – The fourth night**

***

This time there were no boys with torches, no girls to escort Disa. There was only Sigurd’s hand clasping hers and his longer legs setting the pace as she ran – still light-headed from the smoke – to keep up with him. The world was a red dusk around her after the deep dark of the seið: the red of the pillars, of the new fires, of her skirts rustling around her legs like poppy petals. 

One door opened and closed, and in the night of the antechamber there were no colours at all. Then another door opened and they were in the gaudy twilight world of the jarl’s chambers. Sigurd locked the door behind them, leaving the key still in the lock.

Despite the two doors, Disa could still hear the muted sounds from the hall proper. The inner walls did not reach all the way up to the ceiling, allowing for the smoke to leave through the gable window.

“Will your mother be all right?” she asked. She couldn’t not ask. 

Sigurd lingered by the door. “Do you really think there’s anyone stupid enough to touch her?” When Disa shook her head, he continued, “Thora will have had her carried to the women’s house by now. I would never have left her if I’d doubted that. I’m not _that_ bad a son.”

Disa sat down on the bed. He’d promised her they would talk after the seið, when they had more to talk about. And they certainly had that now.

He came closer. His eyes were shiny and tinged with red, as if he had a fever. “Do you want to leave?” he asked, sounding hoarse. “It would probably be for the best.”

Disa began to remove the veil from her hair, carefully feigning indifference. The fine linen was so smooth against her fingers she wanted to keep stroking it. “No.” 

Away from the madness of the seið, she felt strangely calm. Perhaps it was the smoke that still stuck in her nostrils, but she felt beyond fear by now. 

“You heard her,” he insisted. “The only reward you’ll get is to go on the pyre with me.”

She refused to consider it. “And where would I go?”

“Back to Nes.”

The veil stuck to a pin she’d forgotten at the back of her head, and when she pulled it away, a coil of her hair came loose from the coiffure and spilled over her shoulder, unfurling into a wave of shiny black. She saw him look at it, then look away. He shifted where he stood. 

She thought she could feel his heart beat, as if there wasn’t air between them, but a strange liquid something in which they swam and were connected. Somehow, it made her hungry.

“There’s no going back,” she said, and the words made a terrible sense to her. He opened his mouth to protest, but she wouldn’t let him. “Your mother said she’d have the men break my back and string me up in the warden tree if I tried to trick her. Don’t make yourself a liar by telling me she doesn’t mean every word.” 

He had the decency not to contradict her. 

“Besides,” she added, feeling bold. “I promised I’d help you and I will. I am the woman who’ll save you.”

His shoulders rose in a sort of aborted shudder. There was sweat shining on his forehead now. “I don’t deserve it. I don’t even deserve the jarldom. I—” his voice broke. “But you heard. You heard her.”

She swallowed. A tingling sense of anticipation began to build inside her. They were finally getting somewhere. “I did, but I don’t know what it means.”

He seemed to sway where he stood, as if he, too, were dizzy. Gods, he was so tall. He should sit down before he fell and hurt himself. She patted the bed, and he sat down immediately, as if he’d been waiting for her to allow him to do so.

He hid his face in his hands. The sight of him like that made her itch to do something. For a moment, that something might just as well have been to make it worse as to make it better.

She’d tried to bite him last night. 

With the peculiar clarity of dreams, she remembered that it wasn’t the first time she’d bitten someone. When she was hardly more than an infant herself, she’d been tasked with tending her infant brother. He’d been so sweet and well-behaved, offering her no opportunity to do her job. In the end she’d sunk her teeth into his small, chubby arm. Just a little, just to make him cry so she could comfort him and feel like she was doing what she was supposed to do and feel good about herself.

“You could tell me,” she said, her voice hushed. She hadn’t meant to sound so breathless.

“You’re asking me to share my most shameful secret.”

Her heart beat faster. She hoped it hadn’t showed, that he couldn’t tell. She was excited because she wanted to help, because she was getting closer to solving the mystery and saving them both, not because– She shook her head to try to clear it. She wished she could have opened a door to let in some air. 

“Let me help you,” she said, partly to distract herself. “I can’t do it unless you tell me the truth. You have to be honest with me.”

He looked up. “I’ve been as honest with you as you’ve been with me.” 

She understood too late that she’d misjudged him, thought him weaker than he really was. And now there was no going back.

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t pretend to be stupid, my Dís. It doesn’t suit you.”

She backed away, deeper into the mound of pillows. 

“You want what I’ve given no one else.” There was a challenge in his voice. “Very well. But all knowledge comes at a cost. The Spear-God sacrificed his eye to be allowed to drink wisdom from Mímir’s well. He hung for nine nights from the branches of Yggdrasil to receive the secrets of the runes and the galdrar. What are you prepared to pay for my secret?”

She stared at him, meeting his eyes. “What can I possibly have that is of interest to you?” 

His gaze wandered, briefly following the stream of her hair down her neck, down her shoulder, along the curve of her body. It made her feel like silver being weighed, like cloth being unfolded in the sunshine to study the weave. 

Then he was looking into her eyes again, in control of himself. “A secret for a secret. You tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine.”

She blinked rapidly; an uncontrollable twitching of her eyelids. “You’re mocking me,” she said, trying to keep her voice even, as if she hadn’t already betrayed herself. 

“I’ve stated my price. Do you accept my terms?”

She could have tried to buy time, but she was no fool. “What do you want?”

“To understand you. There’s something about you that confuses me, and I don’t like being confused.”

“But I am as you see me.” She could feel the beginning of a cramp in her left calf.

“No, that’s precisely what you’re not. Nothing about you is what it seems, my Dís. You should be alien to me – goddess, or foreigner, or both – and yet I feel closer to you than to most of my own people. You seem to be one thing, but you’re something else. You’re so careful not to lie, and yet you’re never truthful.”

She knew what he was getting at. The old fear of being found out surged in her, but this time it was mingled with anger. The anger won.

“I’m not a game of riddles on a long winter night! I’ve been a thrall, but my thoughts and my secrets were always my own. I’ve already given you more than I ever gave anyone at Nes!” She was panting now, feeling as if she’d been running.

But he went on, frowning, like someone doing delicate work. “The most peculiar thing about you is that you say you’re from Serkland, and though you look the part, you’ve never been there.”

“Why do you say that?” Her voice was huskier than ever, making it sound as if she were about to weep.

“You speak the Danish tongue too well for someone who only arrived in the north six years ago. You have an accent, and sometimes you forget yourself and it grows more marked. To me, you sound like an eastern Dane, or a Swede, perhaps? Not really, but that’s the closest I can think of.”

He paused, and when she didn’t say anything, he continued, picking his way through her secrets like someone picking bones from a herring. “I’ve had plenty of opportunities to hear you speak, unlike any other man. And women wouldn’t know, because most of them don’t travel.”

“What if you’re right?”

“I told you. Tell me your secret, and I’ll tell you mine.”

She needed to think; to consider her options without him reading her expression. She turned away from him, but only ended up facing the mistress’ horrible tapestry, which was back on the wall.

In the end, she resigned herself to the inevitable. She’d been temporarily outmanoeuvred, but she hadn’t yet lost the game. These things went both ways; one could bind another person by letting them know your secrets just as you could by knowing theirs.

She faced him again. He’d removed his shoes and the leg windings and settled against the pillows, looking half asleep. When he noticed her, he perked up, like a cat who’d heard the fishing boat coming in.

“Did you have me tell you stories just so you could listen to the way I speak?” she asked.

He looked a little guilty. “No. Not just. You’re one of the best storytellers I’ve heard, almost as good as I am.”

But she refused to be mellowed by his flattery. She kicked off her shoes and folded her legs to hide her feet in her skirts. “I’m no rare Serkland treasure,” she said. “I’m a fur merchant’s daughter from the other side of the Eastern Sea.”

He was silent for a beat, staring at her.

“A merchant?” The single word dripped with shocked contempt. But of course, lords didn’t like merchants. They detested people who could make themselves rich without plundering and demanding tributes; without claiming to be the descendants of gods and heroes.

“From Gardariki. I was born in Aldeigjuborg.”

His expression changed. “Aldeigjuborg. Wasn’t it…?”

She nodded.

“Oh,“ he said softly. “So that’s how.”

She didn’t want his pity, and refused to see the hand that reached out for hers. “I never knew what you call Serkland. My mother left it before I was born. Her first husband was on an errand away from the court and he met a group of northerners on a market somewhere. He had them come back with him to Baghdad, and they stayed for a while, telling him of their customs. At the end of the visit, they exchanged gifts.”

“And you mean to tell me that this man gifted his _wife_? To a bunch of adventurers he must have considered as little more than wild animals?”

“She was one of his concubines. And my father had become a good friend to him by then. It was considered the greatest honour.”

“So the northerner was your father?”

“My skin is darker than my mother’s. I don’t look like her, so I must have been conceived before she left. But the man who reared me was a northerner. He was my father in all ways that mattered.” She paused, feeling guilty. “My parents had nothing but good things to say about my father by blood. It’s just that since I never met him…”

“Does anyone know?”

“Your stepfather paid for a rarity, something the neighbours didn’t have.”

He pondered her words for a few moments. “Tell me about them, then; these northmen of the east.”

She was quiet for a moment. Was he trying to catch her out? Did he think she was lying? But no, there was nothing but naked curiosity in his expression. 

He looped his arms around his knees. The position of his arms pushed out the stiff fabric of the coat, revealing a hint of a collarbone and the deep, dark hollow behind it. He looked like some lanky thing still growing into his limbs; a boy eager to hear the travellers’ stories. Against her better judgement, she felt herself lower her guard and give in to the dreamy, otherworldly sensation that had been threatening to overwhelm her ever since they returned from the seið.

She always knew what to say when people asked about Serkland. It was usually just a case of telling them whatever they wanted to hear. But to speak of the east; to speak of Gardariki. That was another thing altogether. She knew she shouldn’t offer so much of herself. And yet, she wanted to talk about everything locked up inside the secret part of her. She wanted to talk until she was hoarse, until every word had been spilled.

“They’re traders,“ she said. “Aldeigjuborg is a trading settlement. All sorts of people live there, or come over for a season to buy and sell. There are Slavs and Northmen, Bjarmians and Finns, Chudes and Volga Bulgars. And in summer people come from far away. The horse people of the steppes, the ones of the north-eastern tribes, and people from the south and east.”

Speaking of it brought it back with unexpected force. She remembered the noise of ships being unloaded in the harbour; the chink of silver being weighed on her mother’s scales; the noise of people haggling in myriads of languages; her own laughter as she teased the boys accompanying their masters to her father’s house. 

Then she remembered everything beyond the town: the forests, the river, and the promise of land that went on almost forever.

How could she explain it to him? To Sigurd, land was just islands and long coast-lines, all connected by the sea-road. But her world had been the exact opposite of his. It had been a vast landmass stretching from the eastern sea to some unknown one beyond even Serkland, and from Bjarmland in the north to the Middle Sea and Bláland in the south. It had been plains and forests richly veined with rivers and waterways, and with caravan trails that followed where the water petered out. It had been her birthright until it was all stolen from her.

He waited for her to say more.

“The people there aren’t too different from the people here,” she said, brought back to the here and now. “Their customs, like their language, differ somewhat, but not much.”

“In what way?”

“Well,” she said; the first thing that occurred to her. “For one thing, people mark their skin. They use needles and dyes to decorate themselves. The men have sleeves even under their shirts.”

She remembered the little figure in the boat on her father’s shoulder and upper arm; the huge serpent that coiled around it: the God of Thunder accidentally catching the evil Loki’s cursed offspring when out fishing.

Sigurd hugged his knees tighter, folding up completely. “I’ve seen it, but we don’t do it here. Like the carving or sharpening of one’s teeth. But doesn’t it hurt?”

She felt a twinge of irritation. “Obviously. I told you they used needles, didn’t I?”

He hummed. “You did.” He paused, studying her far too shrewdly. “And you were happy there?”

The question was so unexpected that she replied instantly, without weighing her words beforehand. “I was. And I’ve never been since.”

“What happened?”

“Don’t you know?”

“I know some. But you were there.”

“There were quarrels between the northerners and the others, who didn’t like being taxed. So the northerners sent for help. My father had argued against it, but he was overruled. And—” she swallowed.

He waited for her to continue. He didn’t attempt to comfort her, for which she was grateful.

She closed her eyes for a moment. “A warlord came. Rorik, a minor Skjoldung of some sort. His warriors were only meant to help keep the peace, but he had his own plans. Too late, the northerners of Aldeigjuborg came to see that they hadn’t invited a guard dog, but a wolf. Once he’d subdued everyone else, he turned on them. My father tried to make him see sense, but Rorik killed him. When it was all over, his men shared the loot. Rorik claimed my mother. He gave me to one of his men, the only one who was returning to the west. The rest of them went on to conquer Holmgard.”

She felt nothing. These were the words she hadn’t dared to speak out loud or even think, but now that they’d finally fallen from her lips they might as well have been a pointless rhyme meant to put children to sleep. “We’d been in Heidabyr for a while when word reached us my mother was dead.”

Sigurd unfolded his tall body to sit up straight. His eyes had gone hard, like shards of amber. “The man who took you away, was he the one who sold you to my mother’s husband?” His voice was the voice of a man who was used to being obeyed.

But he didn’t frighten her. “Rorik’s man lost me to a trader in a game of tafl, and the trader sold me to your stepfather in the market in Skíringssalr.”

“I want his name.”

She ignored the haughty ice-cold mistress-ness of his tone. She wouldn’t even look at him. “I don’t recall it.”

“How can you not? Tell me.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

She looked him in the eyes. “Because he deserves to die unmourned and be remembered by no one. To never have his name spoken again.”

Sigurd’s jaw tensed. Then he shrugged, as if he were trying, and failing, to shrug off the tension. “Maybe. But he deserves to die first. I’ll cut out his beating heart and give it to you. Then you’ll be free to forget him completely.”

It took a few moments for the meaning of the words to sink in. To people like Sigurd and his mother, honour was everything. An insult to their closest kin could never be ignored; they took pride in never accepting fines, only blood. That he was willing to start a feud for her meant that whatever anyone else had made of their ridiculous wedding, it had been real enough for him. For the first time since her father died, she had a man to protect her. She was someone again, a member of a family.

She had to steel herself against the mad rush of hope by telling herself that it was all temporary. If – when! – she saved him, he would go on to marry someone else, and so would she. So she leaned in and patted his hand, her fingers like bronze against the pale red of his knuckles.

The red on his cheek was deeper than that: a clean wash of it, not mottled like on other men of his colouring. 

“Now I know why you gambled; why you wanted your freedom so badly,” he said flatly, refusing for a moment to look into her eyes. He pitied her. It made her feel sick. “Born thralls never do.”

It wasn’t true, and it was. No one wanted drudgery, but the ones born to it could never resent it as passionately as those who weren’t.

“Buf if I save you—” She swallowed, but she couldn’t swallow down her shame. She knew she had to reassure him and make it clear that she would never ask too much of him, that she wouldn’t be clingy. “What your mother said is true. I do want a reward. A farm, a husband, some land. And if the man was away most of the time. Well. It would suit me.”

The corners of his mouth turned down, just briefly. He withdrew his hand from under hers. He didn’t say anything for the longest while. When he spoke again, his voice was cold. “You would risk your life for _that_? For so little?”

It made her skin crawl with embarrassment. There was a time when she, too, would have found it absurd. Back when she was a rich, spoiled girl with a dowry large enough to buy her any husband she pleased; back when she’d never even had to consider what it meant to be a manless woman in a foreign land. “It might be little to you, but it’s still more than I’ve dared hope for in all my years at Nes.”

“You could have it now, if you wish. I have enough men and farms. I would be glad to—”

“I have to earn it.”

“There’s nothing you can do for me. Better save yourself. Don’t you remember what the other brides said?”

“Of course they would say that. They failed. I won’t.”

“And they said I—”

“No. No! The only thing that walks at night here is the creature that wants you to let it in.”

His pale skin went even paler. It was the first time either of them said it out loud: that _that_ was what the scratching meant. She guessed he didn’t want to talk about it any more than she did.

“I’ve told you my secret,“ she stated. “Now you tell me yours.”

He was silent, reluctant, but at last he spoke. “Then I need something to drink.”

She fetched the pitcher of water – there was nothing else – and two of the glass cups. She filled a cup, drank from it, then offered it to him. He downed it as if he wished it were something stronger. He wiped his mouth and handed the cup back to her.

“I don’t quite know where to begin,” he said. He began to fiddle with his bracelet.

Disa instinctively reached for his hand. “Here. Let me.”

The metal slipped easily from his wrist, but revealed bruises underneath. When he did nothing to stop her, she took his hand and looked closer. It was the imprints of fingers. Someone had grabbed him, hard. 

In an instant, it all made sense. He had to be restrained. That was why he was placed under guard in the hof during the day.

_He turns nasty_ , Hallfrid had said. _He succumbs to his troll blood_.

But then he looked at her and his yellow eyes were so sad she couldn’t be frightened of him. He looked like a trapped beast that had finally been broken; a creature that had had all joy beaten out of it. She knew that feeling. Oh, gods, she knew it all too well.

She had been about to let go, but now she leaned closer. She lifted his hand to her mouth, bowed her head, and pressed a kiss to every one of the purple spots, as if her lips had the power to remove the stain of someone else’s unwanted, defiling touch.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. Her words came from the place deep within, the one that housed the memories that only surfaced in her nightmares. She kissed his palm, then pressed it to her cheek, the way she might have done with Sigrid’s little hand when kissing it better. “I’m so, so sorry.”

He said nothing, only pulled his hand away. He didn’t cover the marks with his sleeve, but stared at them in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary
> 
> Serkland - The Abbasid Caliphate and neighbouring regions. Probably a Norse catch-all term for predominantly Muslim regions.
> 
> Danish tongue - Old Norse. It is what Scandinavians of the following century called their language, and it was probably so already in the 9th century. At least for someone who'd spent time in England, where all Scandinavians were referred to as Danes.
> 
> Eastern Dane - Someone from the part of the Scandinavian peninsula that was then Danish but is now part of Sweden.
> 
> Swede - A tribal Swede, someone from the petty kingdom of Svíþjóð, in what is now central Sweden. 
> 
> The Eastern Sea - The Baltic.
> 
> Gardariki (Garðaríki) - Old Norse term for the areas around Western Russia and the Ukraine, where Scandinavians had settled along the native population. The area would soon become the states of the Kievan Rus' (royal dynasties descending from Scandinavian settlers).
> 
> Aldeigjuborg - Staraya Ladoga, Russia.
> 
> Bjarmland - The Norse name of the southern shores of the White Sea.
> 
> Bjarmian - Inhabitant of Bjarmland.
> 
> Finn - Norse name for the Sami of northern (and at that time, central) Scandinavia, Finland, and the Kola peninsula.
> 
> Chude or Chud - A term applied in the early Russian annals to several Finnic peoples in the area of what is now Estonia, Karelia, and Northwestern Russia.
> 
> Volga Bulgar - A person from Volga Bulgaria, a historic Bulgar state that existed between the 7th and 13th centuries around the confluence of the Volga and Kama rivers, in what is now European Russia.
> 
> The Middle Sea - The Mediterranean.
> 
> Bláland - Africa.
> 
> Loki’s cursed offspring - Jörmungandr, a huge sea-serpent and the child of Loki and the giantess Angrboða. 
> 
> Rorik (Slavonic Rurik/Riurik, Old Norse Hrøríkʀ)- A Scandinavian chieftain, the founder of the Rurik dynasty, which ruled the Kievan Rus' states and its successor states (including the Russian tsardom) until the 17th century. 
> 
> Skjoldung (Skjöldung) - A member of the Danish royal dynasty of the Skjöldungar.
> 
> Holmgard - Novgorod, Russia.
> 
> Heidabyr - Hedeby, Schleswig-Holstein, Germany.
> 
> Skíringssalr - A Viking Age settlement in Vestfold, Norway.
> 
> Hof - a temple/cult house.
> 
> The companion post is [here](https://ceceril.dreamwidth.org/9239.html).


	13. Gersemi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, there's a glossary and a link to the companion post in the end notes.
> 
> Warnings for suspicions of incest and something along the lines of internalised kink-shaming/ shaming one's sexual orientation within the mindset of Viking Age toxic masculinity.

***

She had a desperate urge to comfort him, to make everything well again. “Do you want me to comb your hair?” she asked.

He looked at her, puzzled. “Why?” He paused, studying her keenly, as if looking for hidden meanings.

“I always combed your sister’s hair. She liked it.”

“Well, then. If it pleases you.”

She settled behind him, standing on her knees, and dared to rest a palm on his left shoulder. She remembered the bruises she’d seen earlier, but he didn’t flinch. Still, his muscles were taut.

She found her own comb, suspended from one of her brooches, and began to ease it through his hair. He tensed further, but he didn’t ask her to stop. Eventually, he began to relax, just as Sigrid would have. 

His hair was fine, but he had lots of it. It was straight and smooth. There weren’t even any tangles to work through, suggesting he wasn’t as ill as the rest of his appearance made it seem. If there was any illness, it wasn’t in his body.

“They must miss you, at Nes,” he said. “It shames me to have stolen you from my sister.”

Disa felt an ache inside her ribcage. But why should it hurt to think of the women’s house at Nes? She’d always told herself she wanted to leave, and had never felt at home there. And yet, she longed for it now: for the drowsy winter evenings when Sigrid was near to falling asleep in her lap and the girls gossiped and laughed. 

“You didn’t steal me. I asked to come.”

“Do you miss her?”

It wasn’t something she’d expected him to ask at all. But there was an intimacy to combing someone’s hair that lent itself to talking about more personal matters. So when she replied, she was honest.

“Yes,” she said.

“Then I’ll have a ship readied for you. You can leave tomorrow. I’ll deal with my mother.”

“You don’t understand. Sigrid wouldn’t want me back unless I’d saved you. She wants to meet you, one day.”

She felt the skin of his nape heat under her fingers as he blushed. “She doesn’t know me. I’m an abomination. I’m the worst brother a girl could wish for.”

“Really? You’ve been nothing but kind to me.”

“I’m an oath-breaker.”

She kept combing. Combing and waiting.

He moved. The strand of hair between her fingers slipped away. “There was someone. Someone I loved. I swore I’d protect her, but I failed.”

Disa waited, her heart beating hard in her chest.

“She disappeared. I was told she’d left, but now… She must be dead. How else would she speak during the seið?”

It was a real question. He wanted her answer.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“I knew it in my heart. But like a coward, I chose to believe the lie.”

Her pulse quickened further.

“I knew it,” he repeated. “Just as I’ve known for some time now that I’m a dead man. I’ve seen my fylgja. In my dreams it has her voice and it speaks of my death.”

Disa looked beyond him, at the fire. Most of the time the fylgja was just someone’s animal shadow, visible only to those who saw unseen things. To have it show up as a dream woman was rare and ominous.

“I always wake up before I see her face, but I know.”

Disa stopped combing. She let the hand with the comb sink down to his shoulder. With the other, she cupped the back of his head. She stroked him like she might have stroked Sigrid. When she grasped what she was doing, he was leaning into her touch, and she couldn’t stop.

“Your fylgja. Is that the thing… The… I mean, whatever walks here at night?” It made no sense.

He paused before speaking. “She’s my shadow.”

“What do you mean?”

“That Sunda’s an unclean place that should be put to the torch. And I’m the worst of all.”

Disa had to force her hand to keep stroking his hair. “She’s the girl; the girl from the seið. But who _is_ she?”

“She’s my sister. The jarl’s daughter. And we, we did things. Together.”

Now it wasn’t just her hand that wanted to still, but her heart. “What did you do with your sister, Sigurd?”

He hesitated. It seemed he would refuse to go on. But then he did. “And now all those girls have died. For what?”

“Don’t. Don’t say that. The mistress was told that a bride would save you. I am that bride.”

“But what about tonight? Am I meant to believe Birsa lied? That she was only out to usurp my mother?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

He sighed. “I’m more similar to my mother’s people than the jarl’s.”

Disa wondered how many generations back his story went. She didn’t want to hear about that. She wanted to know about _him_. But he needed to do this his own way.

“We’re Ylfingar,” he said. “Descendants of the Volsungar, I’m sure my mother must have told you. Anyway, I was named for my mother’s brother, because he died about the time I was conceived. He had no sons, which was why his kinsman, his sister’s husband, inherited the jarldom.”

He seemed to be considering how to continue, and she almost urged him on. Then he began anew.

“My brothers Eirik and Hakon were strong and handsome, like the jarl. I wasn’t like them at all. I was tall and gangly like a newborn foal. The jarl was ashamed of me, but my mother never lost hope. She made sure to harden me.”

She kept petting his hair. It seemed to calm him. “What happened?”

“Eirik was the first to go, that autumn. He was nineteen. He fought a man over a girl and lost. It wasn’t even a fight to the death, but he was unlucky. Or perhaps the other man was.” He lifted a hand, as if he’d been about to rake his fingers through his hair, then stopped when he remembered that Disa’s hand was there.

She made a small, encouraging sound, and he went on.

“Hakon was seventeen. He died the following spring, at the stallion bating at the Dísablót. His horse kicked him in the head. Eirik died fast, he bled to death in a matter of moments, but Hakon lingered for days before he stopped breathing. Mother said it was for the best. He’d have become an idiot if he’d lived, an embarrassment to us. I’d have preferred Hakon the idiot to no Hakon at all, but it wasn’t for me to decide.”

“And your father? He also died?”

“The jarl was wounded the following summer, on the coast of Ireland. We brought him home, but despite mother’s care, he died. Then Rognvald, a kinsman of mine, told everyone I was only fourteen and that he was more fit to inherit the title. But mother wouldn’t have it. She gathered a retinue to back up my claim and confirm that I was sixteen, that I was of age.”

“Was that when you met her?” Disa asked. She didn’t want him to wander off.

“No. We met when we were little. I was hiding from my brothers. I’d gone over to Eagle Island – at low tide there are stones to step on, there’s no need for a boat – and there she was, at the edge of the forest, staring at me. She was poor. A peasant, or worse. But I accepted her as my friend. Or so I thought. I didn’t know then that it was she who’d accepted me.”

“What was her name?”

“Gersemi. A preposterous name.” Gersemi meant treasure; in the legends, she was the beautiful daughter of the Lady, and a goddess of love and beauty in her own right. “Her mother was the vǫlva, but somehow neither of them were welcome at the hall, so I had to sneak away to be with her.”

“And when you got older?” She felt shameless for asking.

“At twelve, once I’d returned from my first trip across the sea and the jarl had decided I was a failure, my mother had me sent to Geatland to be fostered in the king’s household. They’re the main branch of the Ylfingar, you see, we’re just poor relations. When I turned fifteen, mother wanted me back. I wasn’t at all pleased about it, but I had no choice.”

“And you met Gersemi again?”

He nodded. “We’d always… Done things. But we were children then, and when we met again, we were not. But we still… We couldn’t help ourselves.”

Disa felt nauseous. “What did you do?”

“We… I… It’s one thing for a child to do things, but at fifteen I was a man – that’s what the law says – and I should have… But I didn’t. I didn’t fully understand the horror of it. I cursed us all with my unnatural desires. A year later my father, Gersemi’s mother, and my brothers were dead. My mother had married a lesser man to get as far away from me as possible, and Gersemi hated me so much she’d left without a word.” He paused. “At least, that’s what I thought. That’s why I didn’t search high and low for her. But now it turns out she was dead, too.”

Disa remembered the tales of the Volsungar. “You slept with her? You got her with child?”

He turned around. He looked haggard, as if telling her this was draining him. “No, of course not! I always knew who she was! No, it’s even worse than that. We… We were both much-knowing: we could sing galdrar, carve runes, and all the rest. And we always exchanged our knowledge. And when I returned… We seiðed. Both of us.” There was something of the storyteller about him in the way he paused for dramatic effect.

Disa waited for him to confess something truly terrible. Her silence seemed to confuse him.

“I’m unmanly,” he explained, again waiting for a reaction. He got none, and continued in a more urgent tone, “I betrayed my family, my class, my sex. I’m not worthy of my title. That’s why everything’s falling apart.” Another poignant pause. When he spoke again, he’d opened his hands, palms facing each other, as if he wanted to grab and shake something. “Don’t you understand?“ he said, in a voice somewhere between a whisper and a shout. “For a man to seið is ergi. I’m _argr_.”

“Ergi?” Disa asked, taken aback. She’d never, ever heard a man say such things about himself. It was barely something one could say about another without grave consequences. “But how?”

While it was true that seiðing normally belonged to women, the Spear-God himself was a seiðman, having been taught by the Lady.

“ _How_? How can you even ask? Are things so different in Gardariki? Have you learned nothing in the years you lived with my mother?” His eyes were wild.

“We never talked about the seið at Nes. It was your mother’s domain. It would have been as unsuitable for another woman to perform it as it would have been for a man, that’s all I know.” She didn’t know what to say, what he needed to hear to calm down.

“But in the east? In Gardariki?”

“The Finns and Chudes, and the Slavs too, have something similar to the seið. Both men and women do it. I’ve even heard of a few northern seiðmen. They weren’t warriors or anything, and they were seen as strange, certainly, but not ergi. Why should they be? Men sing galdrar. They talk to the gods as they sacrifice. Seiðing isn’t like being a coward, or dressing like a woman, or letting another man—”

“I don’t know how other people do it, but to us it’s a loss of control. In public. Making a spectacle of yourself as you faint and swoon and—” He folded his arms over his chest, closing himself off.

“I don’t know. I hardly know anything about it.”

“For us it would be enough for anyone to suspect that a man had—” he swallowed hastily, producing a choked sound. “I was in Hleiðr. Our armies had gathered there before going over to England. There was a man who’d been found seiðing. The king needed to show everyone that this wasn’t something he’d stand for. So he had the men of his hird—” his voice broke. “They all… I mean, they all…” His voice petered out again; he couldn’t even put it into words, and she was grateful for it. “And afterwards, they drowned him. I was sick, and everyone thought it was because I was so disgusted by what that man had done, what he was.”

“You never knew it was considered so wrong?” It seemed unlikely.

“I’ve always been too curious; too greedy for knowledge. I told myself that if the Spear-God could, if my own god could… He’s the Allfather, the most powerful. And he didn’t get his powers by abiding the rules made for peasants and simple warriors.” He let out a shudder. “I was an arrogant little fool. Once I’d done it, I wanted to do it again. It wasn’t just about knowledge and power. It’s pleasant, you see.”

She couldn’t see it at all, but she knew as well as anyone what tended to follow after a seið. “Pleasant?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, unable to meet her eyes. “There’s a right way of doing it, and a wrong way. You’re supposed to see, and to listen. You’re supposed to be hard and impenetrable. You’re never, ever, to let them in. To do it the proper way takes years of training and much discipline. Yes, discipline, because they keep trying to lure you. They tickle, and tease, and caress and beg you to open up, to let them enter you.”

His words and his tone of voice made her skin rise into goosebumps. Before she came to Sunda – no, before tonight, even – she couldn’t have imagined a man saying things like that, not even in the weirdest of stories she’d ever told or been told.

She could have accepted that he really was argr: that he was shameless and not worth saving. She could have refused to listen. Instead, she was fascinated, despite herself. He’d let her have a glimpse of something so irregular she had to pursue it, even though it might be better to let it be. Perhaps it was the inquiring nature she’d inherited from the man who’d been her father by blood, but she had to know more. She had to make sense out of him.

“That’s what Birsa did tonight, isn’t it?”

“I suppose she had to be quick, to offer them her body before they were lured to my mother. She spoke with their voices. If she’d done it properly, she’d only have told us what they’d let her see.”

“And you say it’s pleasant?” She didn’t know why she asked, but it seemed like a sore point, one he both wanted her to press and to leave alone. She didn’t want to leave it alone.

“Even to be around it is… Didn’t you feel it? That change in the air? Don’t you feel—” he stopped. But she knew what he’d meant to say: _Don’t you feel it now?_

She nodded. It wasn’t just the smoke, then.

“But to be taken,” he said, staring straight at a point somewhere above her head. “To have someone – something – inside you. It’s like being ridden, like being held tightly and used. There’s a sort of freedom in it, in the helplessness. The knowledge that no matter how much you struggle, you won’t be free until they’re finished with you. Sometimes… Sometimes these days it’s the only thing I want in the world.” His nostrils flared and his eyelids almost slid shut. He looked drunk. “I want to give up and just fall.”

She should have felt as sick as when she thought that he’d bedded his own sister, but instead she felt dizzy. She felt as if the world had opened up, or turned inside out. As if she were a woman caught in some strange dream where everything was topsy-turvy. Briefly, she wanted to go outside and let the icy air clear her head, until she could feel the proper horror she ought to feel about him being what a man ought not be. But then she forced her thoughts back to what mattered.

“Surely the curse can’t be because of that?”

He blinked a couple of times, as if he’d almost forgotten what they’d been talking about. Then he came to his senses again.

“When my brothers died, I made her a promise. Once I became the jarl, she would come live in the hall with me. She would be honoured as a jarl’s daughter, the daughter of his long-standing mistress. I would take care of her; give her a dowry and a good husband if she wanted to marry, or be her patron if she chose to be the next vǫlva. All that she’d been denied, I would give her. That was the oath I broke.” He drew a shuddering breath, like someone about to weep. “I came into my inheritance after my father died. That summer I left with my men, and when I returned in autumn, she was nowhere to be found. So I waited, but I never saw her again.”

He fell silent. Disa was certain the story had ended, but it hadn’t.

In a smaller voice, he added, “And now she’s always with me.”

Disa felt the hair rise at the back of her neck. “Because she’s out there?”

He snorted, but he didn’t smile. “When we were little, we used to be lynxes together. And lynxes are solitary. We’d pretend to fight, to determine who would get to keep the territory. We would scratch and bite each other, but just as a game. And now…”

He rolled up his left shirtsleeve. Beyond the bruises that had been hidden by the bracelet, it looked as if something had used its claws on him. The skin wasn’t pierced, but the welts were shockingly red against the white skin.

Then, with a sort of mad determination, he got out of bed and stripped from the waist up. There was a golden pendant around his neck, rather than the hammer she’d expected. The only other ornaments were marks like the ones she’d seen on his back when she’d caught him washing. There were scratches, bruises, even bitemarks, all in various stages of healing. But just as on his arm, nothing had punctured his skin. 

It was as if whatever had bitten him didn’t have enough substance.

She reached out and almost touched him. He sucked in his stomach, as if to get away from the touch, and his ribs showed even starker. She let her hand fall. Something about it all made the memories of the half-forgotten dreams awake inside her, like flames from a bed of embers. She squirmed where she sat.

“It started when the nightmares began,” Sigurd explained, once he’d put his clothes back on and sat at her side again. “I didn’t know her, at first. It was so… mischievous. Making me spill my food, tripping me, hiding things. Then it got worse. I couldn’t sleep at night because I would be dragged out of bed, or there would be such noise… So I had to move out of my house and move into the hall.”

Disa didn’t quite understand, and he must have noticed from her expression.

“We are at the heart of Sunda, the place most holy. She can’t get to me here, or in the hof. But…”

“But?“

“But it enraged her. She’d been invisible before,” he said. “Riding me, like a mara. Now she became properly unliving at night. The deaths began. Animals, and thralls, and even freeborn people, began to die. I grew ill. And that was when everyone begged me to send for my mother.”

“She knows about your sister, she knows what you’ve told me?”

He blanched. “Mother is…” He sighed. “She knows the creature is female, but she doesn’t know it’s Gersemi. She mustn’t know what I did. She wouldn’t be able to live with the shame of having such a… Such a _thing_ for a son. I’m the only one she’s got left, and I look just like her dear brother. No, it would be the death of her to know the truth about me.”

“But the brides…”

“Gersemi isn’t too strong in the daytime. In the night, she has her body.” Then, softly, “She wants us to be together, I think.”

But Disa wouldn’t listen. “You didn’t kill the brides? She did?”

“I don’t know. I wake up, and I have no memory of what has happened, and there’s a dead girl in my bed. But they’re always strangled – their necks snapped like little birds – not mauled. Perhaps I do it, I’m not sure. I wouldn’t take my word for it if I were you.”

“Then the brides don’t solve anything. They’re just a way to buy time. She goes for them before she goes for you.”

“Yes.” The word seemed to weigh him down and he had to get away from it. “Maybe,” he added. “I don’t know.”

Unlike most warriors, the thought of the girls dying instead of him seemed to be genuinely unsettling to him. He felt guilty. She thought he wanted her to reassure him, but she chose not to. She didn’t reply, only looked at him until he closed his eyes, as if he couldn’t bear her scrutiny.

“My luck has run out: my hamingja has deserted me,” he said, and there was now a tremor to his voice that recalled the mistress when she was being dramatic. “I’ve brought ruin on us all. The dísir themselves have deserted me!” He beat his fist against his chest once, then let his head hang.

Again, Disa saw an opportunity. “This one hasn’t,” she said. “I’ll help you. If you tell me what to do.”

“It has to end.” He frowned, as if working things out in his mind as he talked. “I have to put things right. I must find the one who killed Gersemi and avenge her. Then the curse will be broken.”

“I can do that. I mean, I can help.”

He didn’t seem convinced.

“Look,” she said. “The men who destroyed my life will always be untouchable to me. So let me do this instead. For the sake of another girl who was wronged.”

He studied her, as if he wasn’t too sure what lay behind her words. Finally, he nodded. He took her arm, his fingers closing around her wrist. She held him in the same way, careful not to press on the bruises.

“Then we have to be honest with each other,” he said. “No more lies.”

“No more lies,” she agreed.

She wondered if either of them truly meant it.

They didn’t speak again that night. Exhausted, they remained side by side, no longer touching, as they waited for dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:
> 
> Fylgja - meaning follower. An aspect of the self that was also an independent being (like a spirit guardian/spirit animal) that could be inherited, and might even reject its owner. It was always female, but could appear in animal form. It could be seen in dreams, or by people with special powers.
> 
> Dream woman (draumkona) - A woman who appared in dreams and offered advice to the dreamer.
> 
> Eirik (Eiríkr/Erík) - From ei- meaning "one, alone, unique", or *aiwa(z) "everlasting, eternity", and -ríkr from *ríks "king, ruler".
> 
> Hakon (Hákon) - from Old Norse há-, meaning high and konr, meaning kin. 
> 
> Dísablót - a sacrifice to the dísir in late winter.
> 
> Rognvald (Rǫgnvaldr) - probably originally from the Germanic *raӡina-, meaning advice or decision, or Old West Norse rǫgn- meaning powers or deities, and -valdr meaning ruler.
> 
> Gersemi (Gørsemi/Girsemi) - Meaning treasure or jewel, the spectacularly beautiful daughter of the goddess Freyja and her husband Óðr. She was the sister of the equally beautiful Hnoss (also meaning treasure).
> 
> Vǫlva - Staff-carrier or wand-carrier. A female seer who performed the seið and had specialised ritual knowledge.
> 
> Geatland - Ancient petty kingdom centred on what is now the Swedish province of Västergötland.
> 
> Ergi/argr - Ergi is the noun, argr is the adjective. Unmanliness or effeminacy, involving traits such as cowardice, shiftiness, being easily manipulated, being unloyal to one's kin, being associated with the paranormal, and having been anally penetrated by another man.
> 
> Hleiðr - Lejre, Denmark
> 
> Mara - Personified nightmare, thought to ride people in the night.
> 
> Hamingja - someone's personified luck, a spirit of good fortune that could show itself to its owner and give hints about the future. Like the fylgja, it could be inherited and could reject its owner (this was a life-threatening occurrence). It could also be lent out, or passed on outside the family.
> 
> This way for the [companion post](https://ceceril.dreamwidth.org/9498.html).


	14. The Cottage in the Woods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a glossary and a link to the companion post in the end notes.
> 
> Warnings: Sexist slurs, brief mentions of domestic violence.

***

When Disa opened her eyes it was morning. Sigurd was already gone.

“Master wants you, mistress,” Kata said. She deposited the food she’d brought on the chest next to the bed. “He says you are to go on a journey.”

Disa sat up, pushing down the blankets she couldn’t remember having covered herself in. She was still in her clothes from yesterday.

“A journey?”

“The men are readying a boat, mistress. So you better get on with your breakfast.” There was a knock on the door, and Kata nodded. “That would be your clothes. I’ll fetch them for you.”

The new clothes seemed excessive. There was nothing wrong with the fine woollen shift, or, indeed, the blue woollen kerchief, or the gown and smokkr dyed a less expensive shade of red for everyday use. But the grey coat was thick and the cloak and hood were lined with marten. The boots were sturdy, and the mittens were made of sealskin. 

Did they expect her to set out to the far north beyond Sunda and stay there? This was more or less how she’d dressed for winters in Aldeigjuborg, where the cold was more severe than anything she’d ever experienced at Nes.

Yet Kata refused to let her exchange even the thick coat for Hravnhild’s more comfortable one. Once they emerged from the hall, Disa began to admit to herself that Kata was probably right. 

It was a fine day, with a pale blue sky lit by a hazy sun, but the air was freezing. There hadn’t been much wind in the days Disa had spent at Sunda, unlike Nes, where the wind blew all the time, so that you only noticed its absence. Now there was a wind, and it came straight from the north, stinging Disa’s face. The ground was already dusted with snow, and the scent the wind carried suggested there was more of it to come.

“He’s waiting by the ships,” Kata explained. She wrapped her shawl tighter around herself and stepped back, so that she stood pressed against the carvings around the door. She was clearly eager to go inside again. “Biarni will take you.” She smiled at him as she saw him appear from behind one of the houses. 

Most of his face was hidden under his cap and behind the cloak he’d pulled up almost all the way to his nose.

Kata laughed, the peals of it like silver bells in the cold. “Take care of my mistress for me,” she said. “Make sure she doesn’t trip on her way to the shore.”

He nodded and reached for Disa. “Mistress,” he said. “Here, take my arm.”

Disa hesitated, then reminded herself that he was the least of her worries. He’d flown into a rage to defend a woman, after all. Not to attack one. How odd that the one they supposedly had to worry about was a young girl, not a big, strong man! 

She accepted his offer out of necessity as well as politeness. Enough people had been walking up and down the path that the frost had been trodden into ice, and he was big and solid enough to hold on to. His upper arm was thicker than her thigh.

Slowly, they made their way down to the boat houses.

“How is your sister today?” Disa asked.

“Tired. She was sick all night. The mistress must have made that drink too strong.”

“I’m sorry. But thanks to her, we’re finally getting somewhere.”

“She’ll be pleased.” He paused as Disa’s foot slipped, and she almost fell. “Careful,” he said. Then, once they’d made it all the way down, he added, “You mean to say there’s hope? That you’ll save him?”

She dared to smile, feeling important. “That is what I was always meant to do.” 

By the shore, Sigurd was standing next to a small boat. With him was a man who usually sat close to him at the high table; in his late twenties or early thirties, he had a round, clean-shaven face, and narrow eyes. His hair was all hidden under his cap, but Disa remembered it as sandy brown and straight.

“That’s Eyvindr the stout,” Biarni said, correctly guessing that Disa was still to learn the man’s name. “He’s the jarl’s steward.”

Disa let go of Biarni’s arm just as Sigurd caught sight of them.

“Is your sister well today?” Sigurd asked Biarni when they reached him. His face was paler than ever against his dark cloak and the marten lining of his cap. There was nothing boyish about him in the harsh winter sunlight. He looked old; his features as sharp as flint.

He barely glanced at Disa, as if she were invisible inside the thick layers of her clothes. Eyvindr the steward nodded at her, but didn’t acknowledge her presence with words, as if he was bound to follow the example set by his master.

“She’s asleep now,” Biarni said. “Where are we going?”

“Eagle Island.”

Biarni nodded heavily. “I thought so.”

“Cheer up, man,“ Eyvindr said, though he didn’t appear too cheerful himself. “At least it’s not far. You can have your bath when you return.”

So today was bathing day. It dawned on Disa that she had completely lost track of time on her journey to Sunda. She felt like the girl in the tale who’d been taken by the trolls into the mountain for what she thought was a week or two, only to emerge again hundreds of years later.

Eyvindr and Biarni kept talking, but she didn’t listen. She noticed Sigurd glancing at her. She wondered if she should address him, but she didn’t yet know how to speak to him when there were others around, particularly his men. Perhaps he felt the same.

Soon, the men got the boat in the water and they made their way around the jarl’s island. The wind made for an uncomfortable journey, though it seemed Disa was the only one affected; but perhaps men didn’t get sea sick. The ones on the ship that had brought her here hadn’t.

Eagle Island lay behind the jarl’s island. It wasn’t all that far away from the hall, and yet it seemed another world. It was just one big, rocky hill covered in forest. Once they’d left the boat in a little bay between smooth cliffs, the men stayed behind while Disa followed Sigurd uphill.

*

To Disa, Eagle Island recalled the forests around Aldeigjuborg. She might almost have been back in the land of her childhood, had it not been for the steepness of the path. Underneath the many layers of her clothes, she was breaking into a sweat. 

She wasn’t the only one who was tired. Sigurd’s back had been straight as they set out. But once the men were out of sight, his steps had grown shorter, and he had begun to slouch. 

“Stop,” he said, eventually. “I need to—” He gasped for breath. “Let’s just rest for a moment.” He slumped down on a mossy boulder. When she saw his face she was surprised to see that he looked miserable, rather than tired. Whatever it was they’d travelled here for, he wasn’t at all keen on it. 

He hid his face behind his hand as he noticed her looking at him. Seeing that there was nothing she could do, she just sat down at his side, grateful for the respite. Inside the boots which were too big for her, the hay stuffing chafed even through her stockings.

It was a fine day. The wind wasn’t as strong here as on the jarl’s island, and between the snow-clad branches, a few birds were singing, as though it were spring already. After all that time spent indoors, the smell of fresh air and pines was sweet in her nose. It made the horrors of the night feel distant. She was dozing by the time Sigurd told her they needed to get on.

“It’s not far now,” he said.

They continued until at last they reached a clearing. In front of them, nestled against the cliff face, was a ruined cottage, damaged by rockfall.

“It wasn’t like this back when I…” Sigurd hesitated, then stopped. “This is where she lived with her mother.” He went ahead, treading cautiously like someone trespassing.

The door was gone, giving the impression of a mouth missing teeth. Sigurd stood on the threshold for a moment before he ducked his head and entered. Disa followed.

It was a mess. The roof was caving in around the smoke hole, and rocks had smashed the hearth, leaving charcoal and half-burned logs strewn around the floor. Damp and decay infused the air, as if there was something rotting somewhere; Disa gathered her skirts about her, afraid of stepping in it.

She turned to Sigurd, expecting him to look as disgusted as she felt, but instead he seemed vacant.

“Do you feel her presence?” he asked, sounding like someone dreaming, or talking in their sleep. “Can you sense her, the way she was in life?”

“No.“ She touched his arm. She wanted to calm him, but didn’t know how. They should leave. “I never knew her.”

“No, of course not.” He pressed the back of his right hand to his mouth. He blinked; his eyes were shiny. “I—” His voice broke. “I’m so tired. I’m so tired—”

At first she didn’t believe what she was seeing. It couldn’t be. But it was. The tears in his eyes overflowed and slowly, humiliatingly, he began to weep.

Disa had never seen a man do that; she hadn’t known that they could. Her instant reaction was mortification on his behalf, as if she’d seen him wet himself. She knew she had to turn away, but instead she remained frozen to the spot, staring as half-forgotten memories rose to the surface.

She’d seen a boy of twelve cry, once, when she was the same age. A group of them had teased her, pulling her hair, and somehow she’d ended up hitting the only quiet one, a willowy thing with hands like a girl and silvery blond hair. 

Abandoned by his friends and pummelled by her, he’d started crying. Just like a girl. Except not like a girl, because girls’ tears had never made her feel what she’d felt as she sat astride him. 

She’d felt so much, all at once; feelings and sensations she had no words for. A heat, inside of her: a damp, heavy something almost like an ache that settled low in her belly. 

She had the same sort of frantic, weird feeling now, as she watched Sigurd’s shoulders shaking and his hands clenched into fists. She watched his face contort with the force of trying – and failing – to bring himself back under control. The tears kept flowing, clinging to his lashes before running down his cheekbones and into his sparse beard.

He opened his mouth, trying to form words, and she knew he was about to tell her to leave. That was when she herself crossed a boundary as definite as the one he’d just overstepped. She did what she’d done all those years ago, with the boy whose name she didn’t even remember.

She clasped at his sleeve. “Come here,” she said.

She hugged him, getting her arms under his and under his cloak to hold him completely. Oh, gods, he was so thin, so thin. She nestled her head to his chest. He was rigid in her arms at first, but as she clasped him firmer, he relented, just as the boy had. 

He sank to his knees and slipped his arms around her waist, sagging as he buried his face against her belly. Her cloak fell open around him, as if she were sheltering him under dark wings. The choking, stifled sounds changed. He began to weep in earnest, with his mouth open against her. Even through the layers of her garments, she could feel the warmth of his breath on her skin.

She shed her mittens and his cap so she could run her fingers through his silky hair. In comforting people, she’d always comforted herself, pleased herself. But this was different. There was something about him that she craved, something as vital as air or water. Whatever it was, it made her prickle and ache, the way a numb limb felt as the blood returned.

If this really were his powers working – and she didn’t think it was – then he’d managed to enchant himself as well as her; she could tell from the way he clung to her. She held him tighter, consumed with this feeling she couldn’t name as she raked her fingers through his hair, all the way down to the irresistibly soft skin of his nape.

She didn’t know how long they stayed like that. Eventually, she heard him sniffle, then swallow a couple of times. Though he’d broken down slowly, he stopped suddenly. With his arms still locked around her waist, he looked at her. There was a dignity about him, a quiet acceptance of pain and humiliation that she’d only ever seen in women before.

“Do I disgust you?” he asked.

She wiped his face with her sleeve, erasing the tracks of tears on his cheeks. She knew what she should reply, and what she should feel. But what she really felt was something else. She shook her head, admitting to him that she was as peculiar as he was. 

He eased himself up, only to seat himself on the bench by the hearth. She followed, letting him pull her down into his lap. She reached for his hair, for a strand that had managed to get stuck in his mouth. Her hand slid back, following the curve of his skull, so that she came to cup the back of his head. He mirrored the gesture. She would never know if she’d pulled him closer, of if he’d pulled her, but they ended up with their foreheads touching and her fingers tangled in his hair as if she was about to tug at it.

“You can destroy me now,” he whispered, his breath hot against her hungry mouth. “Tell anyone about what you just saw and what I told you last night, and my men will overthrow me. From now on, I only have what honour you let me have.”

Her heart was beating so hard she felt dizzy. 

He closed his eyes and she let the fingers of the hand that wasn’t in his hair drag along the sharp line of his jaw. She wanted to, oh, she wanted to–

A piece of the roof fell down and smashed against the earthen floor next to them.

“We should leave,” Sigurd said.

*

Night had fallen when they returned to the hall. The mistress was waiting for them by the high seat. The firelight gave a reddish sheen to the coiled plaits emerging from under her headdress. She might have stepped right out of the old tales of the Volsungar. Surely Signy had looked like this when she sent her own sons to be tested and killed; or Sigrdrifa, when she ordered her brothers to kill her beloved Sigurd for betraying her.

“Where have you been?” she asked her son. 

“I’ve been showing my lands to my new wife.” Sigurd’s voice was as icy as hers could be. “And if there’s anything else you want to know, you may come into my chambers and ask me in private. I’m exhausted.”

“Your wife?” the mistress said with a little smile that Disa knew from experience made grown men tremble. “That girl is nothing but a convenience. And even if you had married her for the right reasons, she’d still only be a bride. You’re yet to make her more than that.” 

When he didn’t reply, her mood changed and she turned whiny. “Why not, Sigurd? She’s as dark as the first one! As dark as the only one out of eight girls you did your duty with! You want people to laugh at me? Is that what you want? You want people to say behind my back that there goes that woman whose only surviving son is a fuðflogi?”

Her voice wasn’t loud, but it carried. There had been a few warriors seated on the benches and a group of servants in the lower hall. The servants vanished, and the warriors hunched like beaten dogs over their boards and dice, making themselves as small as they could.

“What goes on in my bedchamber is none of your business.” Sigurd’s voice was harsh, the sort of voice lords used when they sentenced men to death. “You’re no longer the mistress here. I’m the jarl and you will show my wife respect, or go back to your husband.”

If he had hoped to cowe her, he’d failed. She pretended not to have heard. “They say you went to Eagle Island.”

“Why do you ask, if you already know?”

“That Finn trollkona tried to upstage me last night. Why did you ever let her come back to Sunda? Didn’t she marry? Yes, she did. She married a few months before I left to remarry.”

“He beat her. She divorced him. Was this what you wanted to discuss with me? The juiciest gossip from when you were away?”

She slapped him across the face, apparently not caring if anyone saw. “I’ll teach you to speak to me like that, boy! You’d have nothing without me!”

Disa had been on the receiving end of that palm enough times to know that the bodily hurt was nothing compared to the sort of shock and fear the mistress always managed to instill in the one she chose to attack. 

Sigurd appeared largely unimpressed, though at what cost, Disa couldn’t say. “Was there something else you wanted?”

The mistress sighed. She pressed her hands together. “Oh, darling. I didn’t mean to. You know I didn’t. These last few days have been so trying!” She stepped closer.

Sigurd backed away.

Her eyes darted from her son to the hearth. Then she began to pace. “How I wish Sigurd was here. He’d know what to do.”

“But I am here.” He almost took a step toward her, then stopped.

“Not you.” Her fingers kept fiddling with the beads strung between her brooches. “The first Sigurd; the best Sigurd!”

“The Dragonslayer?”

“Not him. My Sigurd! My dear, my most beloved brother.” She frowned. “The trollkona. She’s asking all these questions, wanting to speak to Sibbi…”

“That’s nothing I want to discuss here. Come and talk to me later.”

The mistress didn’t wait for him to leave first. Without a word, she spun round and went in the direction of the female end of the house.

Sigurd watched her go, then turned to Disa. “It’s time for a bath, wouldn’t you say?” he said, as if nothing had happened. “I’ll have the servants bring water and a tub to the women’s house for you.”

*

The mistress chose not to attend the evening meal. The only one who mentioned her absence was the old thul, Kata’s grandfather, who offered a toast to her good health. The men at the high table glanced nervously at Sigurd, waiting for him to raise his cup before they dared to join the toast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary
> 
> Bath day (laugardagr) - Saturday, the day for communal bathing. 
> 
> Fuðflogi - Literally someone (male) who flees from the cunt. A man who couldn't/wouldn't consummate his wedding on the wedding night. The female equivalent is flannfluga.
> 
> And the companion post (for those wanting to read more about this chapter) is [here](https://ceceril.dreamwidth.org/9753.html).


	15. Undertow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As per usual, there's a glossary in the end notes, and also a link to the companion post.
> 
> **Warnings:** brief violence and blood.

**PART SEVEN – The fifth night**

***

That night, Sigurd escorted Disa to the jarl’s chambers, leaving the serving boys behind. 

“I’ve asked Biarni to come and bring his sister,” he said as he closed the door behind him. They hadn’t spoken since they returned from Eagle Island. They never spoke during the evening meal. “We need to know more about what she saw during the seið.”

“You think she’ll tell you?” Disa sat down by the hearth. Her hair was still damp from her bath, and the room was cold. 

She didn’t feel clean. Using a tub was only marginally better than a cloth and a bucket of water. What she really needed was to spend the better part of an evening in the steam and smoke of the bath house; to alternate the heat of it with the cold water outdoors.

Sigurd’s pink cheeks as he entered the hall earlier that evening suggested that that was the kind of bath he’d had. He must have thought they weren’t ready to share yet. 

She felt a weird little flutter low in her belly. Thinking about sharing a bath with him recalled the weird intimacy they’d shared in Gersemi’s cottage. It was like a fragment of a dream. Only now there was none of the seið-smoke lingering in the air for her to blame.

She crossed her ankles, pressing her thighs tighter together under her skirts. 

Sigurd didn’t say anything for a moment or two. He didn’t join her, but remained standing. His shadow – lengthened by the low light of the fire – lay over the coloured rugs of the floor like a dark path. 

“If not for my sake, then for yours,” he replied, once she’d already forgotten that she’d asked something in the first place. “She won’t let another bride die if she can help it.”

Disa adjusted one of her brooches. It was heavy. But, of course, so were all the burdens of a woman. “Ah,” she said. “So I’m useful.”

He looked at her, a curious look washing over his face. “Did you ever doubt it?”

“Is it because I resemble her sister?” 

“You look nothing like her,” he said and turned away, refusing to face her. His shoulders rose a fraction. His back, always straight, seemed stiffer. “Nothing at all.”

“Your mother said—”

“My mother says so many things. I only listen to half of them.”

“And Biarni flinched the first time he saw me in his sister’s clothes. So did you.”

“It’s the hair and the height. But she was a girl. She was only a couple of years or so younger than I am, but she was a girl. A funny, sweet girl who deserved better, but still a girl. You’re not.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, but still wouldn’t face her. He clasped his hands behind his back.

She wasn’t sure there wasn’t some sort of unintended insult in his words. Was she too old for him? “I’m not?”

He shook his head. “No. You’re all woman.” They were both silent, and then he went on, speaking faster, as if he’d said something wrong and needed to make it better. “It’s not your body. I mean, it is. She was a skinny little thing and you’re, well, you’re not. But it’s not that. It’s everything about you: how you speak, and act, and move. It’s your hugr. ”

Now he turned, and there was a bright flush on his cheeks. It made him look as if he had a fever.

“She always seemed to be screaming _look at me, look at me_. But you – you don’t need to. You will never not be noticed. The day you came to me, I sensed you – your hugr – even before the ship was sighted. My Dís, I—”

There was a knock on the door.

Birsa marched inside before Sigurd could open, followed by an apologetic-looking Biarni. Birsa nodded at Disa, then turned to Sigurd, who was making the sort of grimace you did when you were trying to keep your face under control. 

“You wanted to talk to me,” Birsa said, coming to stand so near to Sigurd it would have looked like they were about to brawl, had both of them been men. 

Biarni took a step closer, as if he weren’t sure if he would need to interfere. Then he wavered and stepped back again. He ran a hand through his hair.

“What do you know about the one that spoke last night?” Sigurd asked. His arms remained along his sides, his hands open.

Uneasy, Disa rose and joined them. Not for the first time, she was intensely aware of the tensions between them. The three of them – or five, if you counted the two dead girls – had known each other since birth. Briefly, she saw it all as an image before her mind’s eye: depths that an outsider couldn’t even hope to fathom and an undertow that might just drag them all down. 

Birsa widened her stance. Her chin was tilted up. “I think we both know who she is.” When Sigurd didn’t speak, she continued, “It’s your sister.”

Finally, Sigurd flinched.

“It’s common knowledge,” Birsa said.

“That it’s her? That she’s the one—”

“That Gersemi was the jarl’s daughter. No one was allowed to say it, but everyone knew. And now, because of her, my sister is dead.”

“Gods, just be quiet!” Biarni tried to take Birsa’s hand, but she shook him off. Disa could almost feel her anger in the air, like the air before a storm.

“I loved Hrafnhild,” Sigurd said, and although it might have been wiser not to, he was meeting Birsa’s gaze. “She was my friend, just like you and Biarni were. It hurts and shames me to have been the cause of her death. When the curse is broken, you’ll have justice, I swear. But until then—”

Birsa hit him. Unlike the mistress, she used her fist.

The violence, which shouldn’t have been unexpected, still made Disa flinch. But before she could do anything, Birsa had managed to drag Sigurd down onto the floor and was straddling him, ready to hit him again. But then she hesitated and stopped even before Biarni pulled her away.

“I’m sorry,” she gasped, closing her left hand over the still clenched right hand, as if to keep it from doing further damage. “I’m so sorry. Gods, if my mother could see me, she’d be so ashamed! I don’t know what came over me!”

Sigurd licked at the blood seeping from the left corner of his mouth. He wiped away the rest of it with his thumb. “I deserved it.”

Birsa held out her hand and Sigurd took it.

“Maybe you did,” she said, helping him stand. She seemed unsure of herself for a moment, but then she straightened up and gathered her anger about her again, as if that was what gave her strength. “But consider this: who’d welcome your sister’s death? Who hated her enough to kill her? Ask yourself that, Sigurd Jarl, and when you’re ready to face that knowledge, come to me and we’ll talk.”

She grabbed her brother’s arm in passing, taking him with her as she left.

*

“Let me help you,” Disa said once the door had closed. 

Sigurd’s pale features rearranged into a tired grimace, as close to a smile as she’d ever seen. She was going to take his hand, but he seemed a little unsteady, so she dove under his arm instead, letting him lean on her as she led him to the bed. 

He sat down. “Perhaps you’d like to have a go at me, too?”

“Of course not. Let’s have a look at you.” 

He obliged, parting his legs so she could stand between them. Like this, she was so close to him she could smell the lingering scent of soap in his hair. She reached out and cupped his chin in her hand. The line of his jaw was stark. Even the bone was sharper than she thought her own must be.

He closed his eyes. 

It should have been too intimate, but it felt like some sort of continuation of what they’d done before, in the cottage. She’d comforted him, and now she was comforting him again. Caring for him.

She thumbed at his lower lip and he let her slide her finger into the slick of his mouth, along the smooth flesh and hard teeth. Just inside the corner of his mouth was a cut where he’d bitten himself, either at the impact of Birsa’s fist, or as he hit the floor. No wonder. His eye teeth were quite long. She couldn’t help but to press the pad of her thumb against one.

He swallowed, and she removed her finger. She examined the rest of his face and his head, but there was no other damage. Some of the blood from his mouth was still on his beard. There was even a speck on his shirt. Fortunately, there was nothing on the coat, which would have been harder to clean.

“I could have told you,” he said, opening his eyes to study her expression. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

She fetched water and a cloth. Gently, she tilted his head to wipe away the blood.

“Birsa’s sad and angry because she lost her sister,” she said, making her voice as soothing as she could. “She doesn’t hate you. And as for your mother… Well. She is what she is.”

He made a sound that was close to a chuckle. “I was sixteen when she left. I was twenty when I went to England to join the great army with all the men I could muster and prove myself as a warrior. Now we’re both back in this awful place, and the eight years since her departure just fade away.”

She didn’t know what to say, but he didn’t seem to expect a reply. He closed his eyes again. 

She’d thought him ugly the first time she saw him. That seemed like a hundred years ago now. He still had jutting cheekbones over hollowed-out cheeks and large, deep-set eyes that sat too far apart. There was still too much that was harsh and sharp on him, and hardly anything except his lips and lashes that was soft, but she no longer saw ugliness. He’d simply been carved by a different hand than other people, by a strange god with an entirely alien notion of beauty.

If he heard her thoughts, he didn’t show it. He just sat there, letting her handle him. He looked so tired, as if he was half asleep already. He wasn’t even trying to maintain some decorum. It was as if her having seen him at his worst had removed the need for that. But no, it wasn’t that. He was so meek, almost painfully so. Rather, it was as if he’d decided that having lost face in front of her, he no longer had a right to pretend. 

She was the guardian of his honour now, he’d told her. Remembering the words, his voice as he said it, made the flutter in her belly return.

“You need to lie down,” she said out loud. “And you need a clean shirt.”

It took a few moments for him to react. Then he opened his eyes, and she was struck, as always, by the colour. Then she noticed something else: his left eye strayed, looking slightly to the side, rather than straight ahead at her. Then he blinked, and focused his gaze on her, before looking away.

He undid his belt and shrugged off his coat. Then he reached for his neck, for the ribbon at the slit of the neck hole of his shirt. He sighed, as if the act of untying it was too much for him. 

“Shh, I’ll do it,” Disa said. 

He instantly let his hands fall down into his lap. Disa leaned in. Her fingers made quick work of what he’d struggled with, and ended up resting there, against the hollow of his throat. She felt his pulse beat against her. She licked her lips, which had gone dry. 

He stared at her mouth.

“Lift your arms,” she said.

He did, letting her ease off the last layer of clothes from his upper body. 

She touched the spot she’d just touched through his clothes. His collarbones were adorned with bruises, ranging from the darkest purple to a fading yellow. How could someone who had no body do this to him? Was it all a lie? Did he do it to himself?

She touched one of them. Part of her expected it not to be real. 

There was a quick, suppressed twitch of his mouth.

She backed away. “Does it hurt?”

“Not as much as it should.” He sucked in his lower lip, gnawing at it. “I feel numb. It’s as if… As if I’m falling asleep, and not even the pain can rouse me. I wish it could.”

There was nothing she could say to reassure him. She must have looked miserable.

“Don’t worry,“ he said. “It’s not too bad.”

She made herself smile. “I’ll fetch you a clean shirt.”

She was gentle with him as she dressed him and put him to bed, the way she was when Sigrid was ill. But once she’d pulled the blankets up to his chin, she hesitated.

“I won’t look,” he said. 

He turned away, and she hurriedly stripped down to her shift, let down her hair and climbed in next to him.

He startled as she settled next to him. He sat up. His eyes were wide open, as if to force himself not to fall asleep. “Let’s talk. It’ll make it easier to stay awake.”

“What do you want to hear?” She began to twist her hair into a plait.

“No stories, not tonight.” He paused. “Would you like to go to Serkland?”

“To the land of the stories my mother told me? More than anything in the world.”

He cocked his head to a side. “Tell me.”

“When I was at Nes, and people asked me about Serkland, I used to say it was a land so rich in silver the farmers used it to shoe their horses.” She let her eyes slide half closed and pronounced each word carefully, in an exaggeration of storytelling. “That silk was so plentiful girls made their shifts out of it.”

“And it isn’t so?” He was watching her keenly. He didn’t seem disappointed as much as eager to know. It made him seem less ill.

“Of course not. Can you imagine such a place?” She sighed and petted the pelt under her hand, the way she would have a cat or dog. “But it would be warm. There would be learning and cities and it would be warm.”

He wrinkled his nose. “Learning and warmth are no bad things. But cities? The stench and the crowds!”

“You don’t like cities? You don’t like people?” Her voice caught in her throat as she thought of Aldeigjuborg. “The stench is just… It’s just the smell of lots of people.”

“I don’t believe we’re meant to be crowded like that. It’s like living in a camp all the time. The filth from the cesspits seeps into the wells and makes people ill.” He spoke carefully, presenting his thoughts to her as if they were settling a dispute.

This was what he wanted: a debate. But she was tired, and the gentleness irked her. “But you can’t have learning without people coming together. And not real riches either, unless it’s plunder.”

“What would you have us do instead?” He seemed interested, rather than insulted. He pursed his mouth, and seemed to be prodding at the cut inside his cheek with his tongue.

“Why can’t you trade?”

“We do, actually, though it’s not always what you would think of as trade. All our pelt, eiderdown, and walrus tooth couldn’t buy us the land and the riches we’ve taken abroad. So we accept that some of us will give their lives so that the rest of us can have a piece of that. We sell most of the loot. You really think all the goods that change hands in Dyflin, or Ludun – or your Aldeigjuborg, for that matter – were first obtained by peaceful exchange?”

Anger flashed in her, hot as a flame. In another life, she would have stormed off. But now there was nowhere to go.

He understood. “I’ve offended you. It wasn’t my intention. I only wanted to talk about something that wasn’t my curse or my sister. Something a normal man might talk to his wife about.”

She shrugged, not because she had nothing to say, but because she had too much. She wanted to shout it all at him. “You don’t think I understand that some wares came to the markets in unsavoury ways? Once I’d been lost at tafl together with a pile of silver? Once I’d been sold to your stepfather for the price of a fine horse?”

He didn’t offer her any words that might further feed her rage, and that just made it worse. She remembered the largest of the chieftain’s elkhounds, and how completely unfazed it had been when Sigrid’s little lap dog yipped and yapped at it. Was she so insignificant to him that her words had no power to annoy him?

“You may choose to go raiding, but people don’t choose to be raided,” she said.

He pressed his lips together. He seemed to be considering whether to speak or not. In the end, he gave in. “We don’t choose it. I haven’t shown you my lands. But you’re no fool. What have you seen?”

She frowned and said nothing.

“Tell me what you’ve seen of my household and my island, my Dís.”

She wasn’t sure what he meant. “It’s not like Nes.”

“And?”

“The hall is larger, as is the household.”

“But what about the lands?”

“The island is all stones, and wetland, and forest.”

“There’s precious little land to put to the plough.” He looked steadily at her. “Our people have lived on this coast always. Since the gods made earth out of Ymir’s body and water out of his blood. We lived off what the land and the sea gave us. Years when the elk grew scarce, or the fish kept in the deep sea, we starved.”

“And what of the gods?”

“The common people worship the sea god and his sister-wife. They’re ancient and fickle. I sacrifice; we all do, but it’s never enough.”

“So you raid,” she said, the last word like a piece of unripe apple in her mouth.

“We raid. You see, we’ve always fought between us, neighbour raiding neighbour, us and the Finns both. But then we learned that the people of the south were richer, and we united against them. For generations now, our men have gone to sea. When fewer children died or had to be put out, we grew in numbers. We moved further north, taking new land. Now we couldn’t live like we once did. If we had to stop raiding, half of us would die.”

“And you’d have nothing of this.” She made a gesture that encompassed the room around them: the rugs and the tapestries, the chests and the caskets.

“No,” he said. If she’d hoped to taunt him into a temper, she’d failed. “I could, of course, choose not to take it. I would have nothing to give my hird, or to dazzle my friends and enemies. And then one of my kinsmen would decide that he’d be better suited to my title. Or one of my neighbour lords might decide to take my lands. In the end, my people would suffer.”

She scoffed. “So you and your warriors kill and plunder, but only so that the children here won’t starve.”

“I could tell you that it’s the only way for a man of my standing to live, that the life of a warrior pleases the Spear-God. But you don’t want to hear that.”

“What do you think I want to hear?” She fingered her plait, then folded her arms over her chest to keep from doing it.

“A ruler has a responsibility,” he said. “It’s his duty to make sure his people are well, that his lands are fertile and the sea bountiful. If his luck fails, he must answer to the gods. He is the one who must pay the price. And that’s why you’re here, isn’t it, my Dís?”

She had no idea what he was talking about. Perhaps he’d hit his head harder than she’d realised. “There were no rulers at Aldeigjuborg,” she said. “There was a Thing where the men came together to make decisions. There was a lawspeaker, of course, but no king.”

Only now, when it seemed there was something he was trying to say that she couldn’t understand, some meaning that eluded her, he was beginning to lose his patience. His words came slower, more insistent. “You saw what I saw, in the mirror. The time is drawing near.”

She still couldn’t understand. Whatever conclusion she was supposed to reach from his cryptic utterings was deeply unpleasant, and she desperately needed to get away from it. So she refused to humour him. She let her thoughts wander back to where their talk had left the course she had expected it to take and changed the subject.

“Serkland,” she said, coaxing him. “Didn’t you ask me about Serkland?”

He studied her for a moment, before he let her have her way. Perhaps he was even relieved, though she had no idea why. He hummed. “You were going to tell me about it before I interrupted you.”

“There would be the most wonderful gardens there,” she said, because she’d always been fascinated by the utter extravagance of such a thing. “Full of flowers, made for kings and queens to walk in. It would be like a taste of the next world.” The words themselves, her own mother’s words, calmed her.

He, however, seemed as unwilling to understand her meaning as she’d been to understand his. “When I think of the life after this, I don’t imagine strolling around a kale yard.”

“These gardens would be unlike anything you can imagine.”

“I can imagine all sorts of things. I’ve seen the gardens of the hofs of Hvitekrist. There were several herbs I’d never seen before.”

“I haven’t seen those, but my mother tells me that the king’s garden would be magnificent, filled with the rarest, most precious of flowers. When the king of all kings sent out his soldiers to conquer new lands, he would ask them to bring seeds for his gardens.”

“Why ever for? Was he hungry?” He was trying to be rude, but he was leaning in, drawn closer by her words. He was curious, despite himself.

“Because for a people accustomed to plains and deserts, and so rich that silver and silk were commonplace, beautiful greenery was valuable, the way wine and wheat and jewellery is to the people here.” When he still seemed unconvinced, blushing with what had to be silent irritation, she went on. “The colours and scents. You value spices, don’t you? And tapestries and rugs. All your dyed clothes! You want things that please your eyes and your nose, and that’s what the gardens would do. There would be roses and lilies and jasmine to scent the night. There would be springs to make pleasant noises. The grass would be thick and lush against the bare feet of a queen.”

Now he was watching her raptly, lips parted. What was he seeing? Was she giving away too much of herself?

Her throat ached and her voice grew huskier than ever. “Not that I know any of this, really. It’s just what my mother told me. She said the ancient kings of the east made the western ones look like petty chieftains.”

“And not all of those riches were gold and silver? And not flowers, either?” His eyes gleamed with a hunger she knew well, because it matched her own: the hunger for knowing things.

“There would have been men whose only purpose was to know things. To learn things. About other people, or their own. About the sun and the stars and the earth. Some men would travel far and wide, not to conquer or plunder, but to search for the treasure that is knowledge.”

“Not too far, I hope?” he said, and she couldn’t quite make out if he were trying to tease her. “Some say that if you go far enough, you’ll encounter Loki’s son, the great serpent.”

“My mother told me she’d heard it said that some men say the earth is round. That if you go far enough in one direction you return to the point from which you’d set out.”

“Had they tried?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then how would they know?”

“It’s possible to almost know something, because everything else points to it.”

“How do you mean?”

She’d asked the same questions when her mother explained this to her. “Haven’t you ever believed something you haven’t seen with your own eyes?”

“Yes, of course. The tales of the gods, the secret knowledge. But that’s not what you mean.”

“What do I mean?”

His mouth pursed. “Take sailing. You’re crossing the sea, and you can’t see the shore. But there are other signs that tell you that land is near. The birds, for one. There are other things, too. Once you’ve done it enough times, you just know.”

“Some men would try to describe the things that are hard to put into words. It would no longer be something they can’t quite put their finger on, but something that can be explained.”

He considered her words. “There are signs that point to the earth being round?”

“Yes.”

His eyes were bright. “I know, just like everyone who’s ever sailed knows. The horizon looks rounded at sea. The first part you see of a ship is the mast, then the rest appears. Then there’s the stars. The way they move doesn’t make sense if the earth is flat.”

“That’s what she said, too.”

“Some say that there’s land on the other side of the western sea, beyond even the Snow Island. If the earth is really round, that might be Serkland. Or perhaps the world is larger than we know, and there’s something else there. Someone should try and see.”

“Someone?” she asked, looking at him from under her lashes, as if she were back home in Aldeigjuborg, teasing one of the young men who had come to see her father. “Would that someone be you?”

He looked away, the light in his eyes gone. “It doesn’t matter. It’s not for me to know. I have more important things to do with my last days than to plan impossible journeys.”

His words shattered the ease that had been building between them, and she could no longer avoid what she wanted to avoid.

“Why are you so sure you’re going to die?”

His eyes narrowed, as if he thought she were mocking him. As if the question was ridiculous and beneath her. “It’s what we’ve been talking about: knowing without really knowing. Soon, there won’t be any daylight at all. If I decide to cling to life until then, the sleeplessness will make me die of madness, in utter dishonour. ” He paused, and his expression was calm. “That is what you were sent to save me from, my Dís. I never expected you to save my life.”

She stared at him, too shocked to say anything remotely comforting. He didn’t even look as if he needed to be comforted. Like the heroes of old, he had accepted his fate. 

“So we find whoever killed your sister,” she said, pretending to be as calm as he was.

“Vengeance.” The word itself was a sigh. He grimaced. “Birsa accused my mother of killing Gersemi, didn’t she? To me, it makes no sense.”

“Doesn’t it? Neither your sister, nor her mother, were welcome at the hall.”

“You mean to say my mother was so keen on keeping her husband’s other woman away she’d stoop to kill a girl? Gersemi was no threat to her, and Gersemi’s mother was already dead by the time Gersemi died.”

“Then why don’t you ask her about it? She didn’t like that you’d been to Eagle Island. Was she afraid of what you might find out?”

“If she’d had something to say, she’d have said it. She’s not one to mince her words. ” There was a finality to his words and Disa didn’t reply.

She waited for him to speak again, to ask her something. He didn’t.

In the end, she was overcome by tiredness.

*

There was a girl’s voice waiting for her in the darkness.

_Disa. Disa! If you won’t come to me, then I’ll have to come to you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary
> 
> Seið - ritual practice to see or change the future using spirit helpers. Chiefly practised by women. Although men could do it, it was considered shameful for them to do so.
> 
> Bath house - Something like a Finnish sauna.
> 
> Great Army - The Great Heathen Army (mycel hæþen here), a coalition of Norse warriors that set out from Denmark, but included warbands from Norway and Sweden, which invaded England in 865. 
> 
> Dyflin - Dublin, Ireland.
> 
> Ludun - London, England. 
> 
> Aldeigjuborg - Staraya Ladoga, Russia.
> 
> Ymir - Primevial giant, who was killed and butchered by the younger gods to create the world.
> 
> The sea god and his sister-wife - Njörðr and the unnamed sister with which he had the divine twins Frey and Freyja. Njörðr is the masculine form of the Latinised Nerthus, the great fertility goddess worshipped by Germanic tribes in the 1st century. It's therefore likely that there was once a brother-sister pair of which only one "survived" in later written sources. 
> 
> Luck (gipta or gæfa) - A personal quality or inherent force, rather than something fickle or irrational. Having luck was an important part of being an ideal man/hero, and it was crucial for a ruler. Having no luck was a despised quality related to having no honour.
> 
> Hof - A temple/cult house.
> 
> Hvitekrist - Literally White Christ, Norse name for Jesus.
> 
> Loki’s son, the great serpent - Jörmungandr, a huge sea-serpent encircling the world. The child of Loki and the giantess Angrboða.
> 
> Snow Island - Iceland, which was only beginning to be settled.
> 
> The companion post is [here](https://ceceril.dreamwidth.org/10076.html).


	16. So Cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the end notes, there's a glossary and a link to the companion post.
> 
> Warning for mentions of blood.

***

It was dark when Disa opened her eyes, but when she reached out, her hand told her what she’d already guessed – Sigurd was no longer there. She sat up. The fire had gone out, and so had nearly all the lamps. Only the one standing closest to the bed was still burning. The lone flame was like a sliver of gold against the shadows.

She didn’t have time to begin to look for Sigurd; a sound made her look at the window. 

He had climbed the ladder and was trying to open the shutters.

She hurried out of bed. The floor was cold against her bare feet, even through the rugs. The room was icy, quickly sapping the warmth that had lingered between her skin and the thin shift.

She went to stand by the ladder. “Please don’t,” she said. “Come down. Come back to bed.”

He hesitated for a moment. Something began to scratch at the shutter from the other side. Disa panicked.

“Get down _now_!” Her tone was the one she’d only ever used a handful of time on Sigrid, but regularly on her little brothers.

He turned. In the poor light coming from the little window far above, his face was all bone. There was hardly any flesh on it. She couldn’t see his eyes, which were lost in the shadows cast by his brow bones, but she had a feeling they were unseeing, like those of a sleepwalker.

The sound from the other side of the shutters grew in intensity.

“You know you’re not supposed to do that,” she said to him, still firm. Though she wanted to hug herself to keep her teeth from chattering, she put her hands on her hips. “Now come down and get back to bed. I don’t want to have to stand here all night.” 

After a brief pause, he seemed to relax. He let go of the shutters and began his descent.

The scratching sounds became frantic. Whatever was on the other side – and Disa could still not equate the idea of the girl Gersemi with the monster that was haunting Sunda – knew that Sigurd was leaving. 

As he got all the way down, Sigurd took her outstretched hand. He was cold. How long had he been up there?

“You’re freezing,” she said to the silent, towering husk of a man in front of her. “No wonder, when you insist on behaving like this.” She rubbed his hand between both of hers, breathing on it, ignoring the sounds from outside.

“She’s so cold.” When she looked up at his face, she saw that it lacked expression. It would have terrified her if she’d let it. It was the face of a warrior, someone who had no mercy and no feelings, who was barely human. “She’s so cold and she just wants to be warm again.”

Disa forced her mouth into a smile. She probably looked insane, but considering the company, it probably didn’t matter all that much. She let go of his hand to put her arm around him. She could feel his ribs and the bone of his hip through his thin shirt. “It’ll get even colder if you open the window. Let’s get back to bed.”

He nodded and let himself be led away. He walked slowly, with the stiff, shuffling steps of an old man.

She didn’t have the heart to just put him to bed and then lie as far away from him as possible. Once she’d made him lie down, she crept in next to him. She hesitated briefly, then turned to lie on her back and pulled him to her. He didn’t protest, only moulded his body to hers and rested his head on her chest. She hadn’t pulled the covers all the way up and she could feel his warm breath on her breast like a ghostly caress through the shift. She closed her eyes and stroked his hair.

His arm was heavy as it encircled her waist, holding her tightly, his fingers digging into the flesh of her hip. She waited for the old fear – the disgust at a male body so close to hers – to appear, but it didn’t. 

“It’s all right,” she said against his head. “Everything will be all right.”

His grip relaxed. His breathing became regular.

The sound from outside went away and all was quiet. She felt calm again, the sort of calm that is all the more sweet because it follows pain or misery. Her fingers grew heavy, as did his body, half on top of hers. 

Sleep came to her so gently she could feel the delicious slide of it, as if she were sinking into the feathers of the mattress. Her hand stilled, and she simply held him, her arms around his shoulders. He was a lanky, bony thing, but she was soft enough for both of them. 

She didn’t know how long they had lain like that when she felt a shiver travel through his body. He’d all but melted into her, but one moment was all it took for him to go as taut as a bow string. He pushed himself up on one arm. With the other, he reached down to his waist, for a dagger that wasn’t there.

Caught underneath him, she wondered if she’d die now. 

Then he seemed to come to his senses and pulled away from her. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. “What happened?” he asked. “What… What were we doing? Did I fall asleep?”

“I think we both did.”

“The fire’s gone out.”

“I’ll light it again.”

“What did I do? Did I try to kill you? Did I—”

“You were about to open the window.“ She took his hand again. He didn’t stop her. “I got you back into bed.”

“Did I force myself on you? Was that what I was doing?”

“No! No, you didn’t. I wanted to calm you. And I didn’t want you to be cold.” She reached for his face.

“Oh,” he said. She could barely see him, just sense the movement as he let his head hang.

She didn’t know what the silence meant. She stroked his cheek. “I’ll go and revive the fire.” She grabbed one of the blankets and wrapped it around herself.

She was still crouching by the hearth when he got up to join her. He’d fetched a board and gaming pieces. 

“Will you play?” he asked. “To keep me from falling asleep again?”

The pieces were made of blue glass, with golden inlays that glittered in the light. Just to look at their beauty was soothing. She nodded.

They got back into bed and placed the board over their laps.

“You have played tafl before, I take it?” he asked.

“A little,” she said.

He won the first game. She won the next. Then, despite the frown of concentration deepening the lines on his forehead, she won the next game, and the one after that. 

She’d watched her parents play since before she was weaned, and their games had been the stuff of legends in Aldeigjuborg. When the serving boys appeared, at the end of the first sleep, she was unconquered, except for that first time.

“Bring us something to eat,” she told the boys, before Sigurd could speak. “Skyr, oat cakes, and honey.”

*

“I’m grateful you stopped me,” Sigurd said, once they were alone again. The boys having come and gone made everything seem more normal again, and made it possible to talk about what had happened before.

Disa broke an oat cake in two and gave him one half. “What were you doing up there?”

“I don’t know.”

“You didn’t know what you were doing? That’s what happens when you fall asleep?”

He nibbled on his oat cake and seemed reluctant to reply. Only when she insisted did he incline his head in a small nod.

She pressed on. “Do you remember anything?”

His mouth became a thin line. The muscles moved under his skin as his jaw tensed. “I remember climbing the ladder,” he said. “I felt drawn towards the window. I needed to open it.”

“You said she was cold. That she just wanted to be warm again.”

“I don’t remember.”

She opened her mouth to ask again, but he had a stubborn look on his face. He felt cornered; now wasn’t the time. She considered telling him about the fragments she remembered of her own dreams, but she didn’t want to dwell on it, and it simply slipped away.

“Another game?” she asked. The board stood on the chest closest to the bed.

A little colour appeared on his cheeks. “No. I seem to be too tired and distracted to play.”

She managed not to smile. He might be quite different to other men in most ways, but he was enough like them to be a sore loser. 

“Tell me more about Aldeigjuborg,” he said. 

She swallowed the last of her oatcake and licked away a trace of honey from a finger. “What do you want to know?”

“Anything. I can’t bear the silence; I prefer your voice.”

Unable to refuse such an opportunity to dwell on the past, she closed her eyes and told him of the memories that flooded her. She spoke of the lively harbour by the river, of life in the fortified town, of the cold winters and hot summers. She told him how she’d escaped her parents to run wild in the narrow streets with the other children.

She spoke until morning came, at long last, and the fading of night was visible around the shuttered window. She yawned.

“Can I sleep here today?” Sigurd asked. “It’s just that the hof isn’t entirely comfortable, especially after I’ve sacrificed. And the men get so nervous when they have to watch over me. I used to sleep here, but…” he made a hand gesture that encompassed them both.

At first, she was too tired to grasp what he was telling her. Then it all fell into place.

“That’s what you were doing out there, yesterday.” She made a gesture towards the wall. The hof was there somewhere, on the other side. “And I thought it had something to do with the troll blood…”

He opened his eyes wide. “The troll blood? But didn’t I tell you—”

“I know. I’m sorry.” She worried her lower lip with her thumb, almost about to chew on the nail, the way she had when she was a girl. “We could share the bed,” she added, before she could think twice about it.

“Share?”

“It seemed to work earlier. Or do you want me to leave?”

“I’m so tired I could sleep next to a dragon.” He paused. “I didn’t mean to imply you’re anything like a dragon, of course. But won’t it bother you? Could you really sleep with me here?”

“Don’t I keep falling asleep, night after night? If you wanted to kill me, you could have done so already.” She lay down to show him she was serious and hoped he wouldn’t notice that her bravado was forced. “I won’t even notice you’re here. Truly. I’m exhausted.” She even pretended to yawn, and was so tired it became a real yawn.

He lay down with his hands neatly folded over his chest. She glanced at him every now and then, but although his eyes were closed, she could see that he wasn’t asleep yet. In the end, she edged in closer. He turned his head to look at her. His pale eyebrows came together in a frown.

“Relax,” she said. “Nothing bad will happen. You won’t hurt me. I promise.” She came closer still.

When she took his hand, he didn’t protest.

“Sleep now,” she said, and he closed his eyes. 

A few moments later he twitched, his leg kicking under the covers. Then he was still, breathing evenly. She twined her fingers with his and dozed.

She woke briefly when the servants entered. She told them to leave again and to come back at dusk. Then she fell asleep, properly this time.

The voice was there, waiting for her.

*

When she woke up, Sigurd was gone and she was lying on his half of the bed. She sighed out loud. He hadn’t even stayed at her side for long, for there was still light outside. Her head ached.

It was only when she sat up that she noticed something amiss: there was blood on the pillow, just next to where her head had been. She touched her face. The blood wasn’t hers. 

It was only a small stain, but smeared so that some of it had ended up on the sheet. The sight of it made her stomach lurch. Something had happened. She climbed out of bed and began simultaneously to search for her shoes and coil her plait into a knot. She dressed in the clothes left for her by Kata, but ignored the food.

She was on her way out, still adjusting the kerchief wrapped around her hair, when the door opened and Birsa entered.

“He’s gone,” Disa said. “And there’s blood on his pillow.”

“Lots of it?”

“It’s just a small stain.”

Birsa actually blushed. “Isn’t it just from where I hit him?”

This, Disa hadn’t thought about. It seemed forever ago. Waking nights were so long. 

Birsa shrugged, as if she couldn’t understand why Disa was making such a fuss. “I think he’s with Biarni, by the way. I’ll take you there.”

They found Sigurd in the smithy. He looked worse than he had last night. He had wrapped a cloth around his neck, as if he had a sore throat. Next to Biarni’s sturdy ruddiness, his pale, wan face made him look unliving.

“There you are,“ Disa said. “I was looking for you. I thought—”

Only now did she notice that he’d brought some of his men. She recognised Eyvindr the steward, and Thiostolf, the captain of the ship that had brought her here, but she was yet to learn the names of the other warriors. She couldn’t speak freely in front of them. She cast her eyes down.

There was an uncomfortable pause during which no one spoke. Then Sigurd turned to Thiostolf.

“Go and ready the ship,” he said. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

Thiostolf bowed and left, and the men with him. To Disa it seemed they were glad to leave, as if being around their own lord made them ill at ease.

“We need to talk,” Sigurd told Birsa. He glanced at Biarni’s apprentices, who were busy trying to make themselves inconspicuous as they worked. “In private.”

She looked at him for a moment too long. “Then we better go inside.” 

They all followed her to her and Biarni’s house. Sea-Troll the cat, who had been washing himself just outside the door, hissed when he saw Sigurd and slunk away towards a barn. Birsa muttered something. Biarni merely looked embarrassed.

Only Sigurd didn’t seem to have noticed the cat at all. He entered and accepted the offered seat on the bench. “Some people say I wander at night,” he said. “Is that what you think?”

“Of course not,” Biarni said.

“I don’t know,” Birsa said after a poignant pause. She poured ale into cups. She gave one to Disa before she did the same for Sigurd. “You’re not the one we once knew.”

Sigurd drank from his cup, then placed it next to him on the bench. Disa took it, just in case it would spill on its own accord.

“How can I prove it to you? Have you not seen me out in the daylight?”

“I never said you were a troll,” Birsa said. “But something walks in the darkness; it killed one of the serving girls tonight. Thora was very upset.“

“I know,” Sigurd said. It seemed Disa was the only one who hadn’t.

“You’re not keen on telling me anything.” Birsa sat down. “And still you want my help. Well, let me help you: your mother killed your sister. Who else could have done it?”

“Lawless men,” Biarni said, flushed with an emotion that might be anything from shame to anger. “Vagrants who came upon a defenseless girl.”

Birsa rolled her eyes. “She said her murderer was there, in the hall. Don’t shame me by making it seem like I’m related to a fool. Our brother Thorstein does that well enough on his own.”

“A jealous lover, then.”

“She had no lover.” Sigurd’s voice was high and boyish. He’d spoken before he could properly master himself.

“There might have been such a man,” Biarni said, after the odd silence that had followed Sigurd’s words. “Someone unknown even to you. Someone who wanted to own her. Possess her.” His tone was trying to convey something he couldn’t say out loud.

Whatever it was, a weight seemed to settle on Sigurd’s shoulders. “She was never seen after that summer. The last time I saw her was the evening before we left for England. None of my warriors could’ve done it. Perhaps it’s one of the servants. Or one of the thralls, even. Or a man who was little more than a boy back then.” He sighed. “No. I know my people. I can’t imagine any of them doing such a thing.”

“Haven’t we all done things we thought ourselves incapable of?” Biarni asked. “The best of men can do the worst things.”

“By the Lady!” Birsa said. “Have you two listened to a word I’ve said? Why must you invent a man who doesn’t exist?”

Biarni coloured again, but Sigurd was paler than ever. “I’ve listened. But I must be sure… I know I shouldn’t ask you this, but would you perform another seið? A private one, for me?”

Birsa paused before replying. “My brother would have to be present. And even then, I’m not sure it’s proper.”

“I wouldn’t ask unless it was a matter of life or death.”

Birsa glanced at her brother, who nodded. She sighed. “For Hildi’s sake, then.”

“Good,” he replied, already on his feet. “You won’t regret it. But now you’ll have to excuse me. I have to visit the family of the girl who died last night. Biarni, will you come with me? You know them better than I do.”

*

“I’m sure it’s her,” Birsa said, once the men had left. “Who else would it be? Why won’t they listen?”

Disa studied the cup still in her hands. “Men never do.”

“Not when they have to listen to a woman, in any case. Except when it’s the mistress.”

“She’s his mother.”

“Bikkja,” Birsa muttered as she filled her own cup and offered Disa some more. Disa demurred. “She always gets her way.”

Disa waited for her to elaborate, but before she could do so, there was a sound at the door: claws scratching eagerly against the wood. They both startled. Birsa grabbed Disa’s hand so hard it hurt.

The scratching continued. After a few moments, it was followed by annoyed mewling.

Birsa let out a relieved laugh, almost a giggle. She opened the door, and Sea-Troll entered, loudly complaining about having been made to wait. He was mollified by an offering of food, then a place in Birsa’s lap.

“I haven’t been able to get to Sibbi,” Birsa said, her hands busy petting Sea-Troll. “I’ll have to try and get something out of Thora. She’s been here always. She knows all the gossip.”

“You think she’ll be likely to talk now? When one of her girls has died?” Disa leaned in and began to pet under Sea-Troll’s chin. He closed his eyes and lifted his head, basking in it.

“It should have made her consider what’ll happen to all of us, unless we do something about it.”

But she stayed until Sea-Troll tired of being petted and went to sleep on the bench. Only then did she get up and brush the cat hair from her skirts. “We better go and pay our respects to the dead girl.”

“Now?” Disa asked. “What if the mistress is there?”

“Don’t be daft. You think she cares?”

*

Maybe the mistress didn’t care, but Thora certainly did.

The dead girl’s shrouded form had been laid out on a table in the far end of the women’s house. Around it, women sat weeping and wailing. Thora was closest to the body, her hand next to it, as if she’d been about to touch it.

She looked up as Disa and Birsa entered.

Birsa mumbled a prayer as she stopped, right next to Thora.

“I’m so sorry,” she said.

Disa stared at the body. She could only see the bulk of it, wrapped in a sheet. How had the girl died? Had she been so badly mauled they couldn’t even display her face?

She could smell it already, despite the cold: the scent of dead blood, perceptible even in the stuffy, close air around the mourners. She tried to breathe through her mouth, but that just made her taste it instead.

“Thora,” Birsa said. “If you don’t want her to have died in vain—”

“You have the nerve to come here and say such things!” Thora shot back. “You were the one who had to go and ask questions, and now this happened!”

She pulled off the sheet, revealing the girl’s face and neck. Disa turned away, feeling sick.

“What I’ve done?” Birsa’s hands came to rest on her broad hips. Now was the time to be meek, but Birsa wasn’t a meek woman. “How is any of this my fault?”

“Ragnar the skald asked questions. And he died. And now you had to involve us all in your schemes. I swear, if your mother hadn’t been such a dear friend of mine—”

“So what do you propose we do? Wait around like cowards and hope the mistress can get new brides from elsewhere? Wouldn’t you rather stop it?”

One of the women began to weep again.

“Go away,” Thora’s voice was shrill. The tendons in her thin neck stood out. “I won’t listen. Go away!“

Birsa did, and Disa followed, as quickly as she could without running. The moment she was outside again, she threw up.

Birsa patted her back. “That won’t be your fate,“ she said, somehow managing to be both gentle and fierce. “I promise.”

*

Disa didn’t see Sigurd again until the evening meal, which was as dismal as always. The mistress was gone, having chosen to share a private meal with the thul instead.

Sigurd crumbled his bread and didn’t even touch the food on the plate he shared with Disa. Once, he tried to drink from his horn and ended up spilling ale all over Eyvindr and one of the serving boys.

The men were on edge, and a disagreement between some of the younger warriors ended up turning into a brawl. One of them was stabbed in the face with an eating knife before Biarni and a few older warriors managed to separate them.

Birsa went to attend to the wounded man; it seemed there would be no seið tonight.

Disa was grateful when Sigurd had one of the boys escort her to the jarl’s chambers. She’d seen enough blood for one day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary
> 
> Tafl (or hnefatafl) - board game. 
> 
> Skyr - Cultured dairy product, somewhere between cheese and yogurt.
> 
> Aldeigjuborg - Staraya Ladoga, Russia.
> 
> Troll - Demonic being. In Old Norse mythology, the term troll overlaps with various other beings, such as giants. They tend to be unfriendly and have knowledge of magic. They're more like humans than the fairytale trolls of Victorian children's books.
> 
> Hof - A temple/cult house.
> 
> Bikkja - Bitch. 
> 
> Thul - A member of the court whose precise role is uncertain but probably had to do with the preservation of knowledge of the past and the judging of present statements against it. Known as thyle in Old English.
> 
> The companion post is [here](https://ceceril.dreamwidth.org/10527.html).


	17. Blood Songs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a glossary and a link to the companion post in the end notes.
> 
> **Warnings:** mentions of unspecified non-consensual sex, drug use, mentions of alcohol poisoning.

**PART EIGHT – The sixth night**

***

Disa had just settled by the hearth when Kata all but ran inside. Her cheeks were flushed as red as the cap that was about to fall off her head.

“Birsa Half-Finn says she’ll be with you soon,” she said, before she continued to a topic that seemed to interest her more. “Did you see the fight? I missed it, but I heard Hrolfr Black had his face cut up! Serves him right. I’m sure it was Geir who started it all, he’s so skittish these days…”

She deposited the ewer she’d been carrying on top of one of the chests, and only now seemed to notice that Disa didn’t share her excitement.

“You were frightened? There’s no need. Warriors are just like big hunting dogs. They feel that something is wrong, that their master is unsettled, and they get restless. He should send them all out on a long hunt, or to raid a neighbour, or something.” She tied the ribbons of her cap, which had come undone. She was rocking slightly, going up on her toes, then down again, as if it were she – rather than the men – who was restless. “Would you like me to stay here and wait with you? I’m sure she won’t be long, and the master will be here any moment now.”

She went to the bed and picked up a fur throw, which she placed around Disa’s shoulders. “There,” she said. “It’s so cold and dreary here, and you look a little sallow, if I may say so. I suppose the chill and the dark must bother you even more than it does us.” 

Disa almost protested that she wasn’t some imported peacock, but she knew that Kata meant no offense. So she stayed quiet and let Kata rub her arms and shoulders. She was just starting to get warm when Kata stopped.

“Did the mistress have that thing put up?”

Disa looked at the Ylfing tapestry, facing them on the opposite wall.

“I don’t think so,” she said.

“Then perhaps Thora did. How strange that she’s put up only the one.” Kata made a small sound of unease. “It’s not very pretty, is it? Very well done, but unpleasant.”

Disa wanted to ask her more. But before she could, Sigurd entered with Birsa and Biarni. Birsa carried something wrapped in fabric. Once the door had closed behind her, she unwrapped a flat drum with signs painted on it.

Kata left without a word.

*

Birsa untied her hair to let it fall free. The firelight added a golden sheen to the light brown, glossing her with a little of the radiance of the gods.

She removed her shawl and cloak, her jewellery and the smokkr, but kept on the gown underneath. She put a necklace with a goddess pendant around her neck. Already her movements were slow and somehow stately, as if imbued with all the weight of the ceremony to come.

When Sigurd did nothing, Disa rose. She filled a cup with ale and approached Birsa. She drank from the cup, then offered it to Birsa. 

“Welcome, my lady. Drink some of this, so your throat won’t get dry when you sing. So you’ll see only good things to come for my lord and his lands.”

Birsa accepted the cup. Her fingers were dry and warm against Disa’s cold ones. Their eyes met, just for a moment, and Disa had the strangest feeling of something slotting into place. That the roles they were playing – the mistress of the house and the vǫlva – were what they were truly meant to be.

“I will need a few things, mistress,” Birsa said, once she’d drunk and passed the cup back to Disa. Her voice was deeper than usual, with a rich beauty that seemed to lie somewhere between male and female. “Herbs for my visions, and someone to sing songs to call forth the helpers.”

“I’m sure my lord has the herbs,” Disa replied, “but as for the singing, I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with me—”

Sigurd stepped in front of her before she could finish. “She will do no such thing,” he told Birsa. “She knows nothing.” He seemed to have grown taller. It was not the way lesser men puffed themselves up like birds, but something that infused everything about him, from his voice to his bearing. His presence filled the room in a way it hadn’t, only a moment ago.

But Disa wouldn’t be shoved aside. She was next to him quick enough that she saw the grim little smile on Birsa’s lips. “But you do, Sigurd Jarl.”

Sigurd said nothing at first. The trap had been so cleverly baited that he hadn’t seen it coming. When he spoke, he did so slowly, as if needing to keep his voice or his face under control. “Are you saying I should seið with you? That I should bring such shame upon myself here, under my own roof?”

Birsa studied him for a few moments, letting his words hang between them.

“Would I really ask of you what you haven’t done before?” He opened his mouth to reply, but she silenced him with a small gesture of her hand. “Think twice before lying to the Lady.”

Disa felt Sigurd go rigid at her side. 

Birsa spoke again. “I’m only asking you to sing, to call upon the helpers, nothing more. You worry too much, Sigurd Jarl. You see threats where there are none.”

Sigurd’s jaw was as tense as the rest of him. His face was a study of cold fury, as if he might simply slice off Birsa’s head and then never spare her another thought. 

“I have the necessary herbs,” he replied. “And I will sing for you, if that is what you wish.”

Stiffly, as if clinging to the tattered remains of his dignity, he went to the chest where Disa had found the mirror and retrieved a small bag. He handed it to Birsa.

She opened it and smelled the contents. “What is this?” she asked, curious rather than frightened. “I don’t think I’ve come across it before.”

He was watching her face, as if looking for lies. “You mix too many herbs,” he said. “That’s why you get sick. This is better. But it’s quite potent.”

Birsa made a less than impressed sound. “If you know so much, why don’t you put on my dress and do the seiðing yourself?” 

Biarni, who had been silent and kept his distance, came closer, as if he worried he might need to keep Birsa from provoking Sigurd.

But Sigurd only shrugged. Something, and Disa couldn’t tell what, had mollified him. “I won’t tell you how to do this, but you will have to stay the night, and I would prefer it if I didn’t have to spend all the time until dawn holding your hair while you’re sick.”

Birsa’s left eyebrow quirked. “You really are the perfect host, always so polite. But I seem to remember it was I who had to hold your hair once, on the night of your brother Eirik’s pyre. If Biarni hadn’t found you and I hadn’t cared for you, you wouldn’t be here now. I won’t lie; there are times in these last months when I’ve regretted my actions.”

Sigurd wouldn’t reply. He turned to Biarni. “A brazier,” he said. Then he looked at Disa. “Fill the cup. We’ll need to swallow some of this.”

Disa hesitated. She didn’t like his tone. “Won’t people hear if you’re both singing?” 

“It won’t matter. There’s nothing she can do about it, once it’s begun.”

They probably both knew what they were doing, so she filled the cup and gave it to Birsa, who strewed a pinch of the contents of the bag into it. “More?” she asked Sigurd, who shook his head. 

She drank from the cup, but didn’t drain it. She offered the rest to Sigurd.

He hesitated, cradling it in his hands as if he were seeing things inside it.

“Are you scared?” The dark of Birsa’s eyes had expanded, making them look black.

It was the way to goad a youth into action, but deep inside, men were just boys. Sigurd drained it in one go, before handing it to Disa.

“No one calls me a coward,” he said, as if someone had. He licked his lips. Even now, the rigidity of before – the rigidity of a warrior – was ebbing out of him. “But you know I’ll be called far worse things if people say I’ve seiðed.”

Birsa smiled. “To say such things about a free man would be níð. They’d have to challenge you to prove it.”

He swallowed. “And I’d redden my sword in their wounds.” His voice was low and dark, like the purring of a large cat. It made Disa shudder with something that should have been fear, but wasn’t. 

If Birsa was affected by it at all, she didn’t show it. She just laughed, and Disa had to marvel at her strength.

“Good for you,” she said, then turned to her brother. “Biarni, prepare a seat.”

He did, with a small bow, as if obeying the vǫlva, not his sister. He placed one of the seats on top of a large chest, helped Birsa climb up onto the seat, and handed her the drum and a stick Disa hadn’t noticed until now. Meanwhile, Sigurd removed his jewellery and his coat, and untied his hair. He kept the cloth tied around his neck.

Birsa began to hum, gently beating the drum with the stick. Sigurd’s voice fell in with hers, forced unnaturally high for a man. It was weird and discordant at first, but then he found the melody. It seemed he could do almost anything with his voice. This was as far from the deep purring of before as anything could be.

The beckoning call ended, and Sigurd took a hasty breath and began the pleading. It wasn’t the song the girls had sung when the mistress seiðed. In fact, it was a different type of singing altogether, more like singing galdrar than anything else. He began whispering, the words following the rhythm of his shallow breathing. He was muttering the words, moaning them. He looked at Birsa, a quick, challenging glance, before he closed his eyes. He swayed with the peculiar rhythm of his words, frowning as his voice grew, then dwindled again. The words came quicker now, almost too fast, whispered breathily, as if he were making them run.

Birsa waited. When Sigurd began tapping the fingers of one hand against his chest, she began moving the staff, following the rhythm. She added her voice to his, and it seemed hers became a solid ground from which his could rise. His breathing evened out, and his voice grew stronger – deeper first, then higher – until he wasn’t so much singing as shouting. Whatever he was trying to convince was proving difficult. He wasn’t pleading now, but threatening, cursing, demanding. They would come, he was telling them, in words Disa couldn’t quite make sense of. They would obey. Or else. Then the words ended, and his voice rose again, trembling, trilling, like a bird.

At last there was a change. The room grew colder. Disa heard a distant chattering and had the strange feeling that there was something just out of earshot, just out of sight. She moved closer to Biarni. Birsa stopped beating the drum.

She blinked and her body sagged then straightened, like that of someone trying not to fall asleep. She grimaced, and then she was still. Her body was stiff, like a day-old corpse.

“I see two giantesses,” she said, her voice clear as glass. “I see them weaving by the same loom, fighting over who should hold the shuttle. Their fingers are bleeding, but they can’t stop. They weave, they weave, and the tapestry is dreadful to behold. The warp is serpents, the weft guts, the shuttle is a girl’s corpse. There are other girls. Oh! There are eight of them, strung up like game after the hunt. There are other dead, too, turning everything red.”

She fell quiet, gasping as if she wasn’t getting enough air. She spoke under her breath, then began to sing, insistent. Sigurd joined her. His forehead was shiny.

“I see their shadows,” Birsa said, and Sigurd stopped singing. “They’re arguing. The tapestry is drenched in more blood. The shuttle… No, it’s a sword. It rises and it falls. The shrouded body has no head—”

There was a sharp thud, then another. Disa stared at the window, but that was not where the sound was coming from. Another thud, then another. Again. Again. _Again_ , in quick succession. It came from the roof. As if someone was sitting astride the ridge of it and kicking with their heels.

Birsa cried out, wild with pain and fear, like a woman in childbirth. She covered her eyes. She kept screaming until Biarni, who’d hurried to her side, put his arms around her and lifted her from the seat. The noises stopped as suddenly as they started.

Disa felt as if the bones inside her legs had been boiled. She sank down uselessly on the seats by the hearth, staring at the cleansing fire as Biarni put Birsa to bed. 

“It’s better if she’s cared for by a woman,” he said after a while, and when Disa looked at him, she saw that his upper lip was curled with disgust. He couldn’t wait to get away from his sister.

Disa managed to rise. Her heart was still racing.

Despite every part of her body screaming for her not to, she lay down next to Birsa and hugged her like she would have hugged Sigrid. Birsa was shaking. She was hot, and her breath and even her sweat smelled of the strange herbs she’d taken. When Biarni closed the curtains around the bed, leaving them in the dark, Disa almost cried out. Birsa clung to her, and though she was a woman, she was big and strong. To Disa, it felt like drowning.

“There, there,” she whispered, and hoped that Birsa would sleep soon.

By the time she did, the men’s voices, always hushed, had fallen quiet. Disa carefully removed her arm from under Birsa’s head and climbed out. She took a deep breath of fresher air. Her head ached. Her shoulders were tense.

Sigurd and Biarni were playing tafl.

“How is she?” Sigurd asked. He didn’t look at her. His hand, when he moved one of the pieces, trembled. He hadn’t been the one seiðing, but he had tasted the herbs. He would have to be affected.

“She’s asleep.”

“Then she’ll be fine.” Sigurd nodded at Biarni. “Your move.”

She expected him to say something more, or perhaps for Biarni to do so, but instead they both ignored her. She stood there waiting until she felt stupid for doing so.

“Since you’re entertaining my husband, he won’t need me,“ she told Biarni, sharper than she’d meant to. “Good night.”

She felt out of sorts. The headache was getting worse. She left the curtains open and lay down. She drifted off at once. 

When she slipped back into consciousness, it was so gradual that she was hearing the men’s voices long before she was aware of what they were saying. A change in their tone finally dragged her back from the soft darkness in which she’d been floating.

“What I told Birsa is the truth,” Sigurd was saying. “I’m sorry about Hrafnhild. About all of them.”

She heard Biarni sigh. “Hildi was old enough. She knew what she was doing. I loved her and I love her still, but there’s no blame. We don’t blame your father for our brother Thorbiorn dying abroad, do we? At least Hildi died here. We could give her a pyre and let her ashes rest with those of her ancestors.”

“You’re a fairer man than I am.” Sigurd’s voice was thick. “You always were. You don’t think I’ve killed her, then?”

“Of course not.”

“Not even if I’m cursed, if I’m not myself?”

“But if you’re not, then you’re not to blame.”

“Still, it’s a possibility.”

“I don’t know. I really don’t.”

“No. Of course not. Forgive me. And yet, there’s something else. I wouldn’t ask if… I shouldn’t ask, but I have to. Did you kill Gersemi? By accident?”

“By accident! How can you even think…”

“But she came to you; she seduced you. You told me so. I thought when you said… Today, when you talked about a man wanting to possess her, and how anyone can do things he should be incapable of…”

“And you thought I was talking about myself?” Biarni’s voice was barely audible. “Perhaps I did. What she asked me to do with her, to her—”

“I don’t want to know! I didn’t want to know then, and I still don’t want to know now.”

“I never thought a woman could want such things, that it was something anyone could want… I had never—” His voice broke and when he continued, he sounded pitiful, on the verge of tears. “I had never done much more than kissing. I had thought that what men and women did together would be something joyful; that if there was no love, there might at least be tenderness. But she wanted none of that. Afterwards, I felt dirty. I felt I could never look my mother or sisters in the eyes again; that I was too defiled to ever be a woman’s husband.”

Sigurd made a muted sound, as if he was about to be sick. “Please,” he said. “Please don’t.”

But Biarni wouldn’t be silenced. “I haven’t told you this, but she asked me again. And I refused. What if she asked someone else, who went too far? If I’d only gone with her! If I’d only done what she wanted me to do! She’d still be alive, and so would our Hildi, and everyone else… The gods have punished me, Sigurd. They took my sister because I failed yours. I could have shown her it didn’t have to be like that. I could have mended what was broken in her.”

She heard movement. One of the seats scraped against the floor, as if someone had risen in haste.

“But you didn’t…” It was Sigurd’s voice, muffled against something. “You didn’t kill her. I shouldn’t have asked you. Of course you couldn’t have done it, not you, of all people. I’m not thinking straight. It’s the lack of sleep. Forgive me.”

“You should have killed me back when you first heard I’d bedded her, like you said you would. I disrespected your sister. I insulted your family’s honour and our friendship—”

“Of course you didn’t. No, no. You only did what she asked. The gods know it must have been hard to refuse her. It’s what we are, Biarni, she and I. We make people want to do things to us.”

“But—”

“No. There’s no time. I accept that there might be a man, and I’d be grateful if you could make enquiries about it. But there’s something else I need to ask of you. A favour.”

“Anything, just name it. You know I’m your man, that you only need to ask—”

“I know, and that’s what makes it so hard. Because it’s no small thing. I– no, don’t interrupt me. Not until you’ve heard me out. I’ll be dead soon. I have no sons, which means my kinsman Rognvald will take the jarldom. I trust him to behave honourably towards my men, as long as they swear allegiance to him. But I’m not sure about how he’d treat a wife of mine, one who has no powerful family of her own behind her. When I die, you have to take her away. Marry her, make sure that she’s safe. I want her to be safe, and there’s no one else I trust. Not with her.”

There was a long pause. Then she heard Biarni clear his throat. “Of course. I’m sure there are many lords who would welcome me. And there’s always my mother’s people. But it won’t come to that.”

“Having to run away and live with the Finns?”

“No, to me marrying your widow. Because you won’t die. Not yet. I’m only humouring you.”

“You’re sounding like her. She’s convinced she’ll save me.”

“Then I say you should listen to her, because she sounds like a sensible woman.” When Sigurd didn’t reply, Biarni made a stifled sound. “Ah, Sigurd! We’ve lived through worse!”

“When mother had Groa spank us until we couldn’t sit for days for dropping that dead frog in the mead?”

Biarni didn’t laugh. “I’m serious. Do you remember our first trip across the sea? You must have been, what, twelve? And I was fourteen. Do you remember how frightened we were as we waited for the tide? But we lived. Neither of us turned out to be great warriors when we finally met the English, but we lived.”

Disa listened to them reminiscing about their youth, but as nothing more of interest to her was said, she fell asleep again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary
> 
> Hrolfr (Hrólfr) - Shortened form of HrōðulfR, from hróðr meaning praise and ulfR meaning wolf.
> 
> Geir - Meaning spear.
> 
> Vǫlva - Staff-carrier or wand-carrier. A female seer who performed the seið and had specialised ritual knowledge.
> 
> Níð - An accusation against someone's honour. Used to target someone as not conforming to their gender role (this could involve accusations that were not of a sexual nature, including cowardice and/or murder). A níðing (someone who was guilty of níð) was seen as the lowest, most despicable of creatures, similar to how a paedophile would be viewed today.
> 
> Thorbiorn - From þórr meaning thunder and/or the god of thunder and biǫrn, meaning bear.
> 
> The companion post is [here](https://ceceril.dreamwidth.org/11102.html) if you want to read my thoughts on this chapter.


	18. Dís of Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a glossary and a link to a companion post in the end notes.
> 
> Warnings: Offensive language. Also discussions of said language, with references to rape and toxic masculinity, in the end notes.

***

When Disa woke up, she was alone. While she washed and dressed, she thought back on the conversation she’d overheard. In the night, her thoughts had been dulled by tiredness. She’d heard the words, but not taken them to heart. 

Biarni had been Gersemi’s lover and she’d wanted things from him that were out of the ordinary; things that Disa didn’t care to dwell on. There might be another lover, someone who’d taken their games too far and killed her.

And she herself had been more or less given away to Biarni. So despite being a free woman, she was still chattel, something a man could gift to his friend.

The door opened, interrupting the flow of her thoughts. Disa turned and came face to face with the mistress.

“There was a secret seið last night,” the mistress said, without a word of greeting. Her face was as wan as Sigurd's. “What lies did that woman tell my son?”

Behind her, Disa caught a brief glimpse of Kata before the girl was gone. Disa couldn’t blame her. She, too, would have fled.

She looked the mistress in the eye; she wouldn’t back down. “If he hasn’t seen fit to tell you, it’s hardly my place to do so.”

“You dare to speak to me like that? You really think you’re the mistress here now?”

“Doesn’t matter what I am. You stopped being the mistress of Sunda the day your husband died.”

“Be grateful you’re still useful to me, hynda, or I’d have your tongue cut out for that. And that big nose of yours.”

Someone else appeared in the doorway. Kata had returned with Sigurd.

“Mother,” he said, and the mistress spun round. “Were you looking for me?”

“Have you heard? Rognvald has learned about your illness.”

“Later, mother. These days I don’t have the leisure for a nice chat in front of the fire.”

“No, from what I hear, you’re too busy shaming me and your ancestors by seiðing like a woman. Normally, I would’ve had anyone daring to say such things about my son flogged to death, but you’re not yourself lately.”

Sigurd’s fingers twitched before he clenched his hands. “I didn’t seið, mother. But these are desperate times, so you’ll forgive me for not always behaving in a way our illustrious ancestors would approve of.”

The mistress stepped closer. Sigurd didn’t back away, but the tiniest of flinches suggested he would have, had he not willed himself to stay put.

“You’re being absurd. You were always sensitive, a weather vane attuned to even the smallest changes around you. Now this… this matter is upsetting you. What you need is to let me help you. Me – your mother – not that half-Finn trollkona and your sister’s thrall.”

Sigurd frowned, as if he’d temporarily lost control over his face. “She’s not my sister’s thrall, she’s my wife and the mistress of Sunda.”

The mistress pretended not to have heard. “You must think of your honour, Sigurd. Your family’s honour. That’s all I care about. What do you think Rognvald will say if he hears about all this? How will he fear the Ylfingar of Sunda if he’s told the jarl himself locks himself up in his chamber with his smith to sing women’s songs and seið in skirts? He’ll say you’re argr. He’ll say you’re a mare among stallions; that you’re a sorðinn who lets his men—”

“Anyone but you, mother.” Sigurd’s face showed no emotion. “Anyone but you would be dead by now.”

“That’s as it should be.” Disa could hear the satisfaction in her tone. “I only say it so you’ll know. So you’ll remember the importance of behaving as a lord should, always. It’s my duty as your mother to tell you, as it is the duty of any woman to guard her family’s honour by ensuring the correct behaviour of her menfolk.”

He made a little sound halfway between a snort and a laugh. “As if you’d ever let me forget.”

“I warn you! Don’t make me regret the pain I suffered as I gave birth to you.” Then she seemed to remember that gentleness could serve her purpose, not just goading. “You’re confused, my dear. Let me help you.”

Sigurd shook his head. “Sometimes,” he said, and he sounded so tired, “I’m not at all sure you can.”

“Let me try.” The mistress moved closer. “Let me try in earnest, without others meddling. We’ve come so far! This will be the last bride. And once her death has put things right—”

“Her death?” Now he moved, walking around her in a big circle to stand between her and Disa. The tiredness was gone. “No, mother, she’ll live. I’ve seen it.” He turned to Disa. “Come on, we have things to do.”

“Sigurd!” the mistress cried out behind them.

“I’ll talk to her,” he said, as he and Disa stepped outside. “I promise, but I can’t do it right now. There are things I need to be certain of before I face her again.”

He’d promised to be earnest, and now it seemed that he was still doing things behind her back. But the courtyard was busy at this time of day – warriors loitering, thralls and servants busy going about their work, a few women with a group of children around their skirts – and she couldn’t ask him things when they could be overheard.

She struggled to keep up with him. She had to gather her skirts so as not to trip on the uneven, frozen mud.

When he slowed down, perhaps remembering that her legs weren't as long as his own, she looked up at his face. In the harsh winter sunlight, he looked worse than ever. The shadows under his eyes were like bruises. He was still wearing a cloth around his neck, and the same dark coat as the day before, and it made his skin look bluish white.

“Have you slept at all?” she asked, reaching for his hand but only catching his sleeve.

“I’ll sleep soon enough. I’ll sleep for a good, long time.”

“Don’t say that. You need to rest.”

“Oh, I would like nothing better, believe me, but there’s no time for it. Mother’s right. My kinsman Rognvald is travelling south to visit one of his foster sons, and he’s likely to want to stay here for a few days. He’s no doubt been hearing rumours about my mysterious illness all autumn, and now he’s decided to come and see how bad things are.”

“He wants to make a bid for power? Then you need to rest even more.”

“Or what?” he asked. “Or he’ll see me and get the impression that I’m Sigurd Half-Troll, Sigurd _Nattfari_ , a man who becomes a monster and wanders at night: who won’t drink anything but maiden blood or eat anything but human flesh?” He threw his head back and began to laugh. There was no amusement in the sound. It made Disa’s blood curdle.

“Please, stop,” she said, grabbing his arm, aware of how all movement on the courtyard had ceased. “Everyone is watching. Shh, calm down.”

“You saw me trying to open the shutters, didn’t you? Why would I do that? Perhaps the Ylfing blood – the Volsung blood – is nothing but troll blood after all. Perhaps I wasn’t trying to open it, but to close it. Perhaps I was coming back. Someone died again tonight. Another of Thora’s girls wandered out and got herself killed. Why would she do that? They know not to go out alone after dark…”

His face was damp with sweat and he’d begun to shiver. He was working himself into a state. As she watched him, his eyes rolled back. The next moment he had sagged against her. He might be thin as a rake, but he was still a tall man, and he was heavy. She couldn’t hold him up and had to lower him to the ground, letting his head rest in her lap. He was like a rag doll in her arms.

His eyes wouldn’t open. She touched his forehead, then his mouth, his neck. She shook him and said his name, but there was just a sliver of white visible between the fringes of his lashes.

“Wake up,” she said. “Please, please, wake up.”

They were all watching, but no one did anything.

“Help me!” Disa cried. When no one came – when they disappeared, pretending to be busy elsewhere – she cried again, louder. She touched Sigurd’s face, unsure if he could feel it.

She was about to try to lift him somehow, when Biarni appeared, still in his leather apron. Kneeling next to them, he added his hands to Disa’s, touching Sigurd’s face; muttering under his breath as he did so.

“He’s still alive,” Disa said. “He’s only fainted. You have to help me—”

“He needs to be put to bed.”

Disa had expected them to carry Sigurd between them, but she’d failed to take into account Biarni’s strength. He gathered Sigurd’s long, lanky body close and lifted him like a man might a sleeping child.

“To the hall,” Disa said. It would be night soon enough, and she didn’t want to have to move him again.

The mistress appeared just as they were nearing the jarl’s chambers.

“Sigurd!” she cried. “Sigurd, my son! What happened? I demand to know what’s happened!”

When Biarni wouldn’t speak, Disa had to.

“He collapsed,” she said, and opened the door. “He hasn’t slept enough.” There was no need to mention his strange behaviour just before.

“Put him in the bed,” the mistress told Biarni, pretending it was he who had spoken to her, not Disa.

Disa turned down the blankets and with Biarni’s help, they got Sigurd into bed. Disa removed his shoes, then covered him.

“Do you want me to fetch my sister, mistress?” Biarni said, and it took Disa a few moments to grasp that he was addressing her.

“There’s no need for that,” the mistress replied. “I will care for my son.”

Disa was torn between wanting Biarni to go and find Birsa and not wanting him to leave her alone with the mistress. The hesitation allowed the mistress to take control.

Before Disa could attempt to stop her, she was going through the chest with medicines and bandages. She returned to her son’s side with a small birch-bark box.

“I need hot water,” she told a serving boy who had just entered. He bowed and left.

Disa sat down at the bedside. She put her palm to Sigurd’s forehead. He whined. His eyelids began to flutter.

“Shh,” she whispered.

He opened his eyes. Instead of looking at Disa, he seemed captivated by something behind her.

“She’s here.” His voice was hoarse. “She’s here!” He let out a long wail and tried to sit up. “By the Lord of the Hanged, can’t you see her? Over there!”

Disa resisted the urge to look behind her and grabbed him by the shoulders to keep him still. “There’s nothing here. Nothing.”

He was strong, and whatever insanity had taken hold of him made him even stronger as he struggled against her. Fortunately, Biarni came to her aid before something happened.

“Sigurd,” he said, pinning him down. “Sigurd, you’re not yourself. Lie still now, or I might have to hurt you.”

But Sigurd was still struggling. “Let me go! She’ll kill you all! Let me go! I can’t protect you if you won’t let me—”

The mistress had joined the fray and placed her hand over her son’s mouth.

“There’s just us here, my boy, my darling. Shh, be still now.”

He managed to shake her off. “There’s a red band on her throat. A red ribbon against her white skin—”

“Help us!” the mistress cried as she silenced him again. The elegantly folded kerchief on her head had slipped, allowing a tendril of blond hair to escape. “Help!”

Disa watched as the serving boys entered, adding their slim bodies to the struggle on the bed. One of them had brought water, which he was forced to leave on a seat as he went to help the mistress.

“Mix a little of the powder in the box with the water,” the mistress told Disa, who was the only one not piled on top of Sigurd. “We have to get him to drink it!”

Disa ran. As she returned, Sigurd’s jaw was moving from side to side, like that of a nervous beast. His hair was in his eyes as she leaned over him. She wiped it away. She tried to think of something to tell him, something that would calm him, but she couldn’t think of anything. Was he losing his wits now? Was it the curse?

“Pinch his nose,” the mistress said. “Then pour the liquid down his throat.”

Disa did.

Sigurd coughed and sputtered, but swallowed enough of the liquid. Soon enough, he stopped struggling. He let go. His face relaxed and his eyelids drooped. He blinked a couple of times, as if trying to stay awake. 

Then he noticed Disa and reached for her face. It seemed his hand had gone almost too heavy for him to lift. He traced her cheek with a finger. His lazy left eye seemed to be looking at the room behind her, not at her face.

“You’re my Dís of Death. I knew from the moment I saw you. I knew you were one of my lord’s ravens.” He sounded pleased, rather than sad. “So, so beautiful,” he added, and Disa could barely make out the words. Then he spoke louder again, “It is time, at last. I’m ready for you now. I’m ready. Take me.”

His mouth went slack and his eyes closed. Disa shuddered to herself, as if one of the terrifyingly beautiful death goddesses who escorted lords to the other world had just been in the room and borrowed her likeness for a moment or two.

The mistress settled on Sigurd’s other side with a sigh. The serving boys and Biarni waited a little longer before they dared to let go.

Disa pulled away as the mistress began to caress Sigurd again. It felt like abandoning him, but she couldn’t bear accidentally touching the mistress’ fingers.

“My darling,” the mistress said, consumed with the care for her son. She wiped her eyes and turned to the servants. “Tie him down.”

The boys hesitated, exchanging nervous glances.

“Well? Go and get me some ropes!”

The boys wouldn’t go. They turned to Biarni, who replied for them.

“What’s the point of ropes, mistress? You know what your son is; what men like him are capable of. Ropes won’t help, not unless you cover his eyes and mouth, too.”

“They’ll slow him down. Get them for me.”

This time, the boys obeyed. When they returned, carrying coils of rope that still smelled of the boathouses, Sigurd was strapped to the bed. Biarni secured the knots while the mistress sang galdrar over them.

Soon, Sigurd’s tied ankles were hidden underneath the covers, but his wrists – strung together and secured to the bed frame above his head – remained in full view. They had at least refrained from blindfolding and gagging him.

The anguish Disa felt at the sight of him was like physical pain. What they’d done was ridiculous; tying down an unconscious man as if he were Loki himself. He was no beast, and yet they insisted on treating him like one. She wasn’t the only one who was distressed. The mistress looked to be on the verge of tears. Disa felt an involuntary surge of pity. Whatever the mistress was, whatever she’d done, she loved her son.

“He’ll be well again,” she said.

It took the mistress a few moments to grasp that Disa had spoken to her, and in those few moments, Disa had plenty of time to regret her decision.

The mistress dabbed at her swollen eyes. “Of course he will. There was never any doubt about that.” She looked beyond Disa, at Biarni, who was still lingering. “Go tell the men I want to perform a sacrifice for my son’s health.”

“Mistress?” Biarni looked from her to Disa.

“I won’t sacrifice her, you stupid man,” the mistress said. “A pig will do.”

He wouldn’t move.

“Don’t worry about me,” Disa said. “I’ll be fine until you return.”

“I’ll get my sister to come and stay with you,” he said, visibly relieved.

The mistress returned her attention to her son. The breathless adoration with which she cradled him – petting his hair and whispering endearments – was more like the attentions of a lover than that of a mother. The fact that Disa was there didn’t seem to embarrass her in the least.

“You have to live,” she said, loud enough that Disa heard her. “You can’t leave me. Everything I’ve done for you. Everything I fought for. The blood… The precious blood I gave you—” Her voice broke and she sniffled. “Remember,” she continued, her voice husky with tears. “Remember Sigurd the Dragonslayer. Remember how he waited outside Fafnir’s lair. How he hid in a hole and waited, with the sword Gram in his hand, until Fafnir slithered out. And when the dragon passed the hole, the young hero struck the cold steel into the scaly one’s heart.”

She leaned in to kiss her son’s forehead, then his eyelids, the tip of his nose. Her tears fell on his cheek.

“Afterwards, when he was told to roast the dragon’s heart, he burned his thumb on the hot juices. He put his thumb in his mouth, and when he tasted the dragon’s blood, he could understand the language of birds. He heard the sparrows say that he should eat the heart himself, rather than give it away. He did, and he was never the same. That’s your birthright. That’s why you’re braver, and stronger, and wiser, and more cunning, than other men. Never forget that.”

Sigurd lay unmoving. Disa didn’t think he could hear what the mistress was telling him. He hadn’t confronted his mother about the accusations, and now he might never do it.

*

After what seemed an eternity, Biarni returned together with Birsa.

“The men are waiting for you, mistress,” Biarni said.

“Good,” she replied. “You’ll escort me.”

She did nothing about her face, leaving the signs of weariness and sorrow. They were important, Disa guessed. They were signs of her devotion to her son, not of weakness.

Once the mistress left with Biarni, Birsa came to sit with Disa.

“How is he?” she asked.

“He collapsed, just after we’d left you. He was seeing things, so the mistress gave him a sleeping potion. She had him tied down. The boys almost refused.”

Birsa leaned in to smell the bowl that the mistress left behind. She examined Sigurd’s eyes and felt for his pulse. Finally, she pinched his arm, causing him to moan in his sleep.

“It’s all right,” she said. “He’ll be awake again by morning. He needed his rest; this was probably the best thing for him. I wouldn’t have done anything differently.”

“But he collapsed—”

“Because he hasn’t slept enough and he’s tired, that’s all. But you said he saw things.”

“He talked about a girl. He said there was a red line on her throat.”

“I saw a shrouded, headless corpse. The line he saw on her throat – It’s his sister, isn’t it? He used to meet her somewhere.”

“He’s told me things. But I’m not sure I should be the one to tell you.”

“Well, he can’t, so there’s only you left.”

“They were still seeing each other when he became the jarl.”

“I’d say that gives the mistress a reason for killing her.”

“He won’t accept it. Not of his mother.”

Birsa picked a cat hair from her sleeve. “He needs to ask her. Instead of dreaming up a murderer who doesn’t exist outside his and Biarni’s heads.”

Disa stiffened.

Birsa noticed. “I see you’ve heard about Biarni’s involvement with her.”

“I wasn’t sure you knew.”

“I figured he slept with her, and that she unnerved him, somehow.” She shook her head. “Like most men, he thinks he’s more important than he really is. He wants what happened to Hildi to somehow be his fault, because it’s easier like that. Easier than to think that the man he loves killed her. Or that sometimes, bad things just happen.”

“So you don’t think it’s a man who killed Gersemi?”

“It would’ve come out by now, because men can’t keep secrets. No, Sigurd needs to talk to his mother. If she can convince him she didn’t do it, then we’ll look for another killer.”

“He says he’ll talk to her.”

“Make sure he does. He listens to you.”

Disa felt herself blush. She had to change the topic. “He fell asleep last night, and so did I. When I woke up, he was by the window.”

“Really! And was he coming in, or going out?”

“I don’t know. But there’s something out there. When we’re locked in together for the night, there’s something outside, by the window.”

“Does it want to be let in? Or for him to join it?”

Disa paused. She remembered Sigurd’s words, that perhaps it was just him returning. She thought of the marks on Sigurd’s body. He hadn’t asked her to keep what he’d told her a secret, but she felt an obligation towards him. She touched his forehead. Would he want her to speak for him?

“What do you know about the fylgja?” she asked, as if she really was just the Serkland maiden they all thought her to be: some delicate little raven-haired, golden-skinned creature who knew very little of northern customs and beliefs, and who might just shrivel up and die from a little snow.

Birsa’s initial response was not to say anything at all. “Probably more than you do,” she admitted at last.

“He said that’s what’s out there.”

“His fylgja?”

“Who’s also his sister.”

“That can’t be right.”

“It’s what he thinks. He says…” There was too much to put into words. With a silent prayer that it was the right thing to do, she pulled down the covers to free one of Sigurd’s arms. She rolled up the sleeve and removed the bracelet.

Birsa’s intake of breath was almost like a whistle. She touched the marks, tracing them with her finger. “What _is_ this? Did a cat do this?” She pressed on the bruises. “But this was done by something human. By a woman – the fingers are delicate.”

“He says it’s her. In the day, her hugr is about and hurts only him. In the night, she has her body. That’s when people die.”

“She’s unliving. She’s no longer the one she was in life.”

“I know.” In the stories, if something came back after death, it was always bad.

“Not that she was ever what you might call right.”

Now this was interesting. In Sigurd’s account, there had been no hint of this. “What do you mean?”

“Children need other children. And she had none. She was left on her own a lot. When her mother travelled, she was left to fend for herself. She wasn’t as she should be.”

“But she found her brother.”

Birsa rolled down Sigurd’s sleeve. “We used to play when we were little; my siblings and Sigurd’s. The jarl’s children weren’t allowed to play with just anyone. But we were the blacksmith’s children, and at Sunda that means a great deal. The jarls of Sunda always respected the ancient art of smiths; the mastery of fire.”

She placed Sigurd’s bracelet on the chest next to the bed. “There was Biarni and I, and our eldest brother, Thorbiorn, who died in battle. And our younger brothers Thorstein, who’s a farmer, and Hani, who died whilst still a child. And there was Hildi, of course. And Sigurd had a slightly older sister called Helga, who also died young.”

Disa listened attentively.

“Sometimes, our nurses would take us all bathing in summer. We’d row to the other side of Eagle Island, where the water is shallow and warm. Gersemi would hide in the forest and watch us. Even then, I could sense her jealousy.”

“Her jealousy?”

“I thought she was jealous of us all, for being doted on. But later, I was sure it was just her wanting him all to herself.”

“She still does.” A thought occurred to Disa. She stared at Sigurd’s face. She felt as if she were about to betray him. “It won’t be enough to find the one who killed her. She has to be destroyed.”

“ _It_ has to be destroyed. The unliving thing that hurt him and killed my sister is no longer human.”

“I suppose it sleeps somewhere? We’ll have to find it.”

“But how? We don’t have much time.”

“How? Don’t you just…” Disa mimicked holding a staff and stared up at the ceiling.

“One can’t just seið all the time, it’s not healthy.”

Disa binked.

“What did I say?” Birsa asked.

“What would happen to someone who seiðed indiscriminately?” Disa couldn’t even pretend to ask it casually.

“All the secret practices are dangerous. Say you made your hugr fly in the hamr of a bird and something happened to the bird, then you’d die. Or if someone made your hugr lose its way back to your body, then you’d go mad.”

“What about the seiðing; the seiðing proper?”

“If you do it too often you lose control. You wear down the border between what is you and what is not.” She frowned. “It becomes too thin, like a cloth being worn down so you can see through it. You’ll have no boundary, no limits. It’s chaos.”

“Ergi,” Disa said, her voice small.

“Yes,” Birsa replied.

Disa felt that she’d already said too much. She didn’t dare to speak again. She didn’t know what consequences her words might spark.

“Have you heard about Rognvald coming?” Birsa said. “He’s always wanted the jarldom, and now he has his chance. If Sigurd isn’t fit to sit in his high seat, he’s not fit to rule. That’s the law.”

This, Disa hadn’t known. “He told Biarni to take me away and marry me,” she said. “If Rognvald takes the jarldom.”

“He did?”

“Last night. You were asleep, and they must have thought that I was, too.”

“As if we were ever to let that man get his hands on you!”

“But why would you care?”

Birsa seemed taken aback. “Why shouldn’t we?”

“I don’t know.”

“We grew up with an foreigner for a mother. Not as foreign as you, obviously, but someone who was brought up to speak another tongue. We saw the way others treated her; how they laughed at the way she spoke, at the way she sometimes didn’t understand what everyone else understood. Our father didn’t always notice, but we did. Why shouldn’t we help another woman like her? One who’s even more foreign and friendless?”

“I’m sorry,” Disa offered. “It must have been hard.”

“Ah, Mother’s life wasn’t bad. A lot of the time, I don’t think people understood that they hurt her, and she knew that. And she had at least one good friend here.” She paused, then changed the subject. “Anyway, as I said, we need to find the body, and we need to have Sigurd talk to the mistress. No one else is allowed to accuse her of anything. You have to convince him.”

“I’m not sure I can.”

“He trusts you.”

“I’ll try. But it would be easier if we had more evidence.”

“I could talk to Thora again… I’ll try if you try.”

“But she accused you of causing that girl’s death. And now another has died.”

“She couldn’t very well offer to help me in front of all those women, could she? Any one of them might tell the mistress.”

“Just don’t add to her suffering. To Thora’s, I mean.”

Birsa drew her fingers over her head as if to smooth back her already smooth hair. “I should go now. I’ll watch the sacrifice for signs. You’re not afraid of being left alone with him?”

“I’ve been alone with him every night since I married him. I keep falling asleep, even. And I’m still alive.”

“If it helps, I doubt he’ll wake up at all.”

*

After Birsa left, the room seemed too large and empty to Disa. She sat next to the sleeping Sigurd and wished that she had something to occupy her hands. She could have woven a ribbon or embroidered a shirt whilst watching over him.

She lit more lamps, taking one with her to place next to the one already standing on the chest by the bed. The light made his hair, fanned out around him on the pillow, shine like red gold.

He still wore his coat and the cloth around his neck. No one had thought to make him more comfortable. Her fingers twitched. She should do it, but she was frightened of what she might find. He was such a guarded man: hiding his bruises behind clothes and jewellery, and his true self behind a mask. 

She loosened the cloth. She leaned in further, and her shadow fell over him as she removed the cloth altogether to reveal what he’d tried to hide from her. At the place where the neck became shoulder, there was a new mark. He’d been bitten.

For the first time, his assailant had drawn blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:
> 
> Hynda - Bitch.
> 
> Trollkona - Witch.
> 
> Argr - Unmanliness or effeminacy, involving traits such as cowardice, shiftiness, being easily manipulated, unloyal to one's kin, associated with the paranormal, and having been anally penetrated by another man.
> 
> Mare, etc - According to medieval laws in Iceland and Norway, calling a man a mare, bitch, or another female animal, was a fullrettisorð, a slanderous word for which full compensation had to be paid. A man being called such a thing by another man had the right to kill the one who had slandered him (thereby restoring his masculinity).
> 
> Sorðinn - Another fullrettisorð. Sorðinn comes from the verb serða, meaning to fuck, probably in a particularly bestial or nasty way. It is possible it refers particularly to anal sex. It has been argued that sorðinn denoted a man who was fucked willingly, in contrast to someone who was rassragr (from rass, meaning arse and ragr, a metathesis of argr), who had been raped.
> 
> Nattfari - Probably a name, but similar enough to other terms denoting magic users and other uncanny creatures that I've used it in that sense. It means someone who travels by night. 
> 
> Dís of Death - In Old Norse poetry, the death of lords and kings is sometimes described in erotically charged terms as being welcomed by a beautiful death goddess/valkyrie into the pleasures of the other world.
> 
> Fylgja - Fylgja - meaning follower. An aspect of the self that was also an independent being (like a spirit guardian) that could be inherited and might even reject its owner. It was always female, but could appear in animal form. It could be seen in dreams, or by people with special powers.
> 
> Thorstein - From þórr, meaning thunder and/or the god of thunder, and stein, meaning stone.
> 
> Hani - Meaning cockerel.
> 
> Helga - From heilagr, meaning holy/consecrated.
> 
> Hugr - the "essence" of someone, combining aspects of personality, thought, wish, and desire. People with a strong hugr could extend their influence beyond their own body, and even make it leave the body. It seems to have had an aura that some people could perceive. Hugr could also be used metaphorically to refer to someone's mood or character. 
> 
> Hamr - meaning skin/hide or outer garment. The body's physical form, the shell that held the other aspects of the self together. It was also the name of the temporary shape of the hugr in someone who had let their hugr leave their body. The hamr is what changed when someone shape-shifted (skipta hǫmum, or hamask).
> 
> If you want to read more about this chapter, there's a companion post [here](https://ceceril.dreamwidth.org/11669.html).


	19. King Lindworm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: blood/gore and murder.
> 
> There's a glossary and a link to a companion post in the end notes.

**PART NINE – The seventh night**

***

By the time Disa had cleaned and dressed the wound on Sigurd’s neck, she could hear voices from the hall proper. The sacrificial meat was being distributed.

Once the serving boys arrived with her portion, she had them fetch something light to eat for the end of the first sleep, and ordered them not to come back until morning. They went, returned with what had to be enough food to last her all night and the following day, then left again.

Stillness settled over Sunda once more, at least indoors. Outside, the wind that had been nothing but a breeze earlier in the day was growing stronger, grinding the thick timber of the walls and making the windows wail.

Sigurd hadn’t moved since he was drugged. Disa was glad no one had added the blindfold and gag that Biarni had mentioned. Wolf warriors were said to know galdrar that could undo knots, but hadn’t she been told he’d sleep until morning?

She removed the headdress and the hairpins that kept her plait coiled into a bundle and stripped down to her shift. Once she’d washed, she crept under the covers to curl up against Sigurd’s side. It was hard to remember that she’d been so frightened of him.

She placed her hand on his chest, making sure she could feel his ribcage rise and fall with his breath. After a moment’s consideration, she stuck her hand inside his coat. Now she could feel his heart beating.

The bodily knowledge that she was guarding him and making sure he came to no harm comforted her. She pulled the covers higher up, until she was nearly buried under them, hidden from the cold. She breathed his scent: the herbs of his clothes, and somewhere underneath it, the faint smell of his skin. It was familiar to her now.

She yawned, feeling as safe as a little bird in its nest. The sound of the wind became a lullaby, the groaning of the walls nothing more than the creaking of a cradle. She was safe; the weather and Sigurd’s drugged sleep ensuring there would be no nasty surprises tonight. She slipped out of consciousness as contentedly as she had when she was little and had managed to find some excuse to sleep in her parents’ bed.

*

She dreamed again.

She was back in the forest. This time, there was something lying in wait for her in the shadows. She couldn’t see it. She had no idea what it was. She only knew that it was waiting for her, and that it would kill her.

*

The sound of the wind howling brought her back from sleep; that and the cold. She opened her eyes to find that while the ropes were still attached to the bed, the knots that had secured Sigurd’s hands had been untied, and he himself was nowhere to be seen. He had slipped out of his bonds and her arms, and she hadn’t noticed.

The bedding was warm; he wasn’t long gone.

Her heart seemed to be beating in her throat now, letting cold fear seep into the hollow of her ribcage. He had been drugged and asleep, and now he wasn’t here. How could he be gone? It occurred to her that perhaps a man could get used to the herbs, the way a heavy drinker got used to strong ale, so that it didn’t affect him like it did others. Hadn’t Sigurd been almost normal after drinking the potion that had driven Birsa frantic?

These thoughts passed through her mind in less than a moment, as she was turning her head to look at the lower window, the one he’d tried to open before. It was securely shut, and yet there was a draught making the flames of the lamps flicker.

She looked around and noticed that the door to the antechamber was open. Fearing the worst, she stepped into her shoes and wrapped herself in a shawl.

In the antechamber, she found the door leading into the enclosure with the hof was indeed wide open to the snowy night. White flakes were already gathering on the floor. She hesitated for a moment, no more. Then she hurried inside, through the other door, into the hall proper.

It was a quiet place at this time of night, dimly lit by the rusty-red glow of smouldering hearths, and seemingly deserted. Though she knew that there had to be people sleeping on the benches, wrapped up in their blankets, they were invisible to her in the gloom. The lamps had long since gone out or been extinguished. Only a solitary torch still burned by Sigurd’s high seat. She took it from its stand and headed outdoors.

She wasn’t prepared for the cold; it took her breath away. The wind stung her face and plastered her skirts against her legs.

Her feet sank into the freshly fallen snow as she crossed the courtyard. There was a brief respite as she looked inside the hof, but he wasn’t there. She was searching the enclosure when she saw a gate in the palissade, so small she wouldn’t have noticed it, had it not been blown open.

The wind was even stronger when she stepped over the threshold, making it a struggle to walk. In the blizzard, the torch’s throw was pitiful, fitfully illuminating little more than a few steps ahead. The world was all grey around her. A horrible suspicion dawned on her: was she dreaming again?

“Sigurd!” she cried. “Where are you?” Her voice carried nowhere. The snow blew like smoke over the ground.

She was on the verge of turning back when she sensed something further ahead, something unseen, beyond the shifting dunes that were like the half-seen shadows of prowling beasts.

“Sigurd?”

There was no reply, only the wind in her ears. Again, she was certain there was something further away.

The flame of her torch struggled against the wind; darkness grew as the faint light dwindled. She tried to shield it, praying for it not to die as she continued ahead. The ground underfoot began to slope, and she remembered the hollow she’d seen on her first day at Sunda. She walked slower as the descent grew steeper. When the ground finally flattened out, the snow reached her knees, piled high against the foot of the hill.

She continued at a brisker pace, feeling she was almost catching up with the invisible presence, and increasingly desperate, so desperate she forgot where she was going. It was only the feeling of ice crackling underfoot and water seeping up which told her she’d stepped out into the wetland. Her feet were already numb.

Whatever it was that she was chasing was as far away as when she’d first noticed it, if, indeed, it was ever there at all. About to turn around, she stumbled over something and fell, ending up kneeling in snow and muddied water. She only just managed to hold on to the torch, and had to use her free hand, fumbling, to try to get up.

She touched wet fabric and something slippery.

She saw, and then didn’t see, and saw again, all in brief flashes as snow and fire fought for supremacy. The slippery matter was red.

There was blood on her fingers – blood and worse. There was more of it as she scrambled around and slipped, falling headlong over someone, something. The torch was stuck in the soft ground as she felt the coarseness of a beard, and then another face – cold – against her own, only it wasn’t all there and it was like having her cheek pressed against something half butchered.

She screamed and screamed, ending up on the ground again, brittle ice and slush churning as she flailed and tried to stand, her soaked skirts tying her legs. Her hands shook as she finally managed to get hold of the torch. Her fingers were wet, dripping. Her breath was coming in shallow gasps, somehow audible to her through the roar of the storm, as if she was locked inside her own head.

Every instinct in her body was telling her to flee. But she couldn’t flee. She had to know.

She lifted the torch higher, moving it until the circle of light centred on a pair of unseeing eyes and a once white beard matted red. It was the thul; Kata’s grandfather.

The flicker of the torch was made worse by her incessant shaking, so that the image before her kept fading in and out of the dark. It was only when she dared to step closer that the light showed a second figure. Sigurd was crouching on the ground just further away, his back against one of the poles she’d seen on the first day.

There was blood on his face, and blood on his hand as he shielded his yellow eyes from the light. The dark fabric of his coat and trousers were drenched, making them seem black against the layer of white snow rapidly being deposited on him by the wind.

When she didn’t come closer, he lowered his hand and stared at her, teeth bared.

“Sigurd?” She had to shout to be heard over the wind. “Come, let’s get back inside.”

For a moment she wasn’t sure whether he’d attack or flee, but then he rose. Tendrils of his hair were slicked to his face. She wanted to wipe them away, but something about him suggested that he didn’t want to be touched. He was shivering like a wounded beast.

“We have to take him back to the hall.” She wouldn’t be able to face Kata if they left her grandfather to be eaten.

When Sigurd hesitated, she used the shawl she’d wrapped herself in to cover the dead body. Her hair came loose, blowing about her face.

“Take him,” she said.

Now he did as he’d been told. He knelt to roll the corpse into the shawl, then hefted the package over his shoulder. He stood, swaying, waiting for her to go first. She would have preferred to have him in front of her, where she could see him, but she had no choice.

She turned. Her footsteps had already been erased by the wind.

The way back was even worse than the way out had been. Going uphills made the sodden, clinging fabric of her shift rub painfully against her thighs with each step, and the wind was like a thousand needles on her skin.

She was almost ready to lie down in the snow when she found the gate. She stood by as Sigurd ducked inside, still carrying the dead body. Once she’d followed, he helped her close the door against the storm. Without the noise, there was nothing but the sound of their breathing. They were both panting.

“Please leave him in the hof,” she said, trying to keep her voice from wobbling. The thought of having to spend the rest of the night in full view of the wrapped corpse was more than she could stomach, even after days of this living nightmare. “The women will wash him in the morning. Now let’s get inside.”

Sigurd didn’t move. His face was stony. Bloodied and unfeeling, like a warrior fresh from the battlefield, he would have scared her to death if she’d been herself. But she had reached a point where she was unable to feel anything but irritation. She longed to go inside, to lie down, to be warm again, and he was denying her that.

“I told you to leave him here!” she cried, exasperated. Her lips were numb, making it difficult to talk. “In the hof!”

This time, there was a reaction. “Of course,” he said. There was a strange monotony to his voice, a lack of something, as if he weren’t really there.

He placed his burden on the stone table. His silhouette was black against the wall: tall and horrible, like something from a dark tale. It was only once they were inside and she’d closed the door of the jarl’s chambers that he turned around and seemed to come alive again.

“Why did you kill him?” he asked, his voice trembling with the rest of his body. He smoothed his wet hair from his face, leaving a streak of water mingled with blood. With his hair wet and slicked against his skull, he looked even more uncanny.

His words were so preposterous she didn’t know what to say.

“Were you afraid he’d tell Birsa something?” he continued. “Or my mother?”

She hugged herself for warmth. “Did you see him? How would I do _that_?”

He began scratching one of his wrists. The skin was raw from where he’d freed himself of the ropes. “There’s blood all over you. On your face. You’re like a dís, like a valkyrja.” He was quaking with fear now. A grown man, a warrior, afraid of _her_. It was madness, and like all madness, it was seductive.

She licked at the corner of her mouth, tasting iron. “I found him already dead,” she said. “On the ground.”

“Liar.” He pulled the cloth around his neck aside, revealing the bitemark.

She could see his rapid heartbeat in the vein. She stepped closer and saw herself reflected in the dark wells in his eyes: a blood-stained creature with her hair falling in black waves about her; a terrifying something sheathed in a scarlet, half-translucent membrane that hid nothing of the body underneath.

“I slept at your side and I woke up underneath you,” he said, his voice just a whisper, faint compared to the thundering of her heart. “Your red mouth was warm on my neck, your body soft against mine. I thought… But then you bit me.”

His words summoned something from her memory, and then it was gone again. It couldn’t be. She felt light-headed. Had she really done it? It made some sort of dreadful sense. She knew from tending to it that the new mark was different from the ghost marks he’d shown her before.

But there was something else, something just out of reach. She tried to recall, but it was like trying to grasp mist. Then she remembered her name uttered in that faraway voice, and everything began to unravel. 

She took another step towards him and he stepped back, but slowly, as if he were no longer so sure of whether he wanted to escape. His lips were parted.

“I’ve had dreams,” she said. “I’ve dreamed and forgotten, but the dreams have lingered and affected me, though I didn’t know.” She closed her eyes and did her best to send her thoughts deeper and deeper; probing beyond the moment of waking up to access the things hidden in the murky waters of sleep. “I hear my name. It’s a girl’s voice. It’s Gersemi.”

Now it was he who took a tentative step towards her. He was touching the mark on his neck, his long fingers fretting at the place where her mouth had been. He looked lost.

She wanted to comfort him; to make it better. And then there was that small, ravenous part of her that wanted to make it worse.

“There are many dreams,” she said, her voice going hoarser as her throat dried up. “In one, I see you and there’s blood… In another, I know there’s something out to kill me. I’ve tried to bite you once before… I turned into a lynx – there was a lynx in another dream, and I had to follow it – and I am going to pounce—” She began to shiver. “She’s playing us against each other. She’s trying to make me kill you, or you kill me. If she can’t have you, then she won’t let anyone else have you, either.”

Sigurd had the not altogether there expression of someone who was about to faint. He looked beyond misery.

“We’re no match for her if we’re so tired we can’t think straight,” Disa said, wanting to hold him and not sure he’d let her, even now. She rubbed her cold nose. “We have to clean up and sleep. And we need to get out of these clothes.”

He nodded dumbly and – as if he were reacting only to the last words she’d uttered – began to fumble with his belt. It took her a moment or two to realise what he was doing, that he was stripping naked in front of her. It should have been awkward; but it was nothing like a man about to rape, or leeringly expose himself. It wasn’t even like the breathless boys who’d showed her theirs if she’d showed them hers back in her giddy youth.

His shivering fingers were clumsy as he struggled out of layer after layer of blood-soaked, dragging fabric, and it was just like something out of a tale. He might as well have been the lindworm tricked by his bride into shedding his skins and his curse, revealing the body of a king’s son underneath, white as an unripe hazelnut.

On Sigurd’s body, though, the white was marred by the ghost marks, at least above his waist. Further down, she refused to look.

But his nudity made her aware again of the cold. Her teeth were chattering so violently it felt like her entire head was rattling. If she’d had any tears left in her, this was when she would have shed them. Instead, she pulled her shift over her head: freeing herself of the sticky, clinging garment. Now it was only her hair that hung like a wet cloak over her back.

If he’d reached for her, she would have gone. If he’d picked her up, she’d have let him. She was too cold and too wretched to have declined the offer of human warmth. But he did nothing. His eyes remained locked on hers, never straying lower to look at what she’d offered him.

She was the one forced to move; she fetched water and towels.

To wash properly was impossible under the circumstances, but they managed to get most of the blood away. Then, though she knew that it was best to lie down like this if they wanted to get warm, she accepted the shirt he offered her before he picked one together with trousers for himself.

They ate a little in bed, more because they both understood they needed it than because of any hunger.

“Do you dare to lie next to me?” Disa asked Sigurd as they finally lay down. “What if I bite you?”

He had been about to turn away, but now he shifted and moved closer to her. His movements were heavy.

“I was a fool,” he said, and his voice had the same drifting quality of before, when he’d thought she was his Dís of Death. He lifted his hand, and when she didn’t stop him, he let one of his fingers trace her nose, then her lips. “I’d much rather you were the one biting me than _her_.”

She opened her mouth, catching his finger between her teeth. She didn’t even know if she’d meant it as a jest, or to frighten him, or for some other inexplicable reason, but the dark of his eyes expanded in response. His mouth opened, mimicking hers.

She closed her eyes. When she sucked him deeper, her tongue curling, he sighed out a word she didn’t catch, and she felt his breath on her. The next moment, his other hand was on her face, and long, sensitive fingers cradled her, tracing her hollowed out cheek. He leaned over her, his damp hair tickling her neck.

It was too much, and it was too little.

She grabbed him and pulled him to her. He went, following her lead as sinously if they’d been dancing. He ended up with his head on her bosom, on her wildly beating heart, and she held him, hugging his exhausted body tightly as he finally fell asleep.

She kissed the top of his head, feeling torn up inside with tenderness and the knowledge that he wasn’t hers and never would be. Sooner or later, she would have to let him go.

But not tonight.

*

He roused her what felt like moments later, but the faint light outlining the shuttered window told another story.

“They’ll be here soon, my Dís,” he said. His warm hand lingered on her naked shoulder. “We need to be ready.”

She wanted to sink back into oblivion and sleep for days, but some things had to be done, no matter how you felt about them. So she sat up, almost getting tangled in the long sleeves of the shirt that had been made for his taller body.

“About last night—” he said. She could sense his blush like a heat between them and knew that he wasn’t talking about the dead man. She shook her head, silencing him. But he wouldn’t have it. “If I took advantage—”

She pressed her fingers to his mouth. “I don’t want your excuses.”

He moved her hand aside, enclosing her fingers in his. “Then what do you want from me?”

She felt her mind fill with words, but none that was enough. How could she explain something she didn’t herself understand? It was as if the sustained horror she’d lived in ever since boarding the ship with the mistress had purified her, rather than worn her down. Like flax, she had been broken and scutched, uncovering what had been deep inside her all the time.

There was a knock on the door. With the sudden interruption, her startling sense of clarity was gone, and the morning passed in a blur: the body was removed; people came and went; she was offered food but hardly ate any. It was as if she were a child again, back in Aldeigjuborg, playing some elaborate game of make-believe.

The mistress stayed away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary
> 
> Hof - A temple/cult house.
> 
> Lindworm - Mythical serpent/dragon. In Scandinavian medieval folk tales and ballads, the lindworm tended to be a king's son. It asked for brides that it killed and ate, until at last one bride tricked it by going to the bridal chamber wearing every dress she owned. When the lindworm asked her to remove her dress, she asked him to shed his skin. Seeing that the bride wasn't naked yet, the lindworm asked her to remove another dress, to which she replied that in that case, he should she'd another skin. And so it went. At last, the lindworm had shed all of its skins and the girl all her dresses. She then either whipped it into a pulp or washed it with lye until the point of almost dissolving it, revealing a man's body underneath.
> 
> Aldeigjuborg - Staraya Ladoga, Russia.
> 
> There's a companion post [here](https://ceceril.dreamwidth.org/11875.html) if you want to read my thoughts on this chapter.


	20. Kveldriða

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: marking. If you think other warnings are needed, let me know.
> 
> There's a glossary and a link to a companion post in the end notes.

***

Sigurd had just returned from seeing his men and was sharing a meal with Disa when Birsa and Thora came by. They had been the ones to wash the body. The thought would have made Disa lose her appetite if she’d had any to begin with.

Sigurd motioned for them to sit down. “How are the girls?”

“As well as can be expected.” Birsa poured herself some ale before sitting down at the other side of the hearth. “Alfhild – his daughter – wants to leave.”

“And Kata?” Disa asked.

“She says she’ll stay. She would have come now, to be with you if you needed her, but I managed to convince her that Alfhild needs her more. She wanted to help us wash her grandfather’s body, but I wouldn’t let her. The poor child.”

“I’m sending men to inform Sibbi’s sons tomorrow,” Sigurd said. “Alfhild can go with them, and there’s a place on the ship for Kata, too, if she changes her mind.” He put down his plate with the food he hadn’t touched, then turned to Thora. “And how’s my mother? How is she taking all this? She was very fond of Sibbi.”

There was a break in the conversation, a moment when Thora and Birsa exchanged glances. Though Disa was painfully aware of it, it seemed to pass Sigurd by.

“She drew the storm,” Thora said. Her mouth puckered, as if the words were sour. “It was to keep Rognvald away, to buy you some time. It exhausted her. She’s not as young as she used to be.” She fell quiet, which caused Birsa to bristle.

“Tell him what I brought you here to tell,” she demanded, as Thora’s voice drifted off. “Do it, or I will.”

Thora was quiet for a while. “I saw the mistress enter Sibbi’s house last night,” she said at last, just before Birsa spoke.

“But you wouldn’t ask the girls about it, would you,” Birsa said. “So I did. They told me the mistress made them leave so she could speak to Sibbi alone. I think she asked him to meet her later, that she lured him out so he would be killed. I’m sure she used her powers to do something similar to Ragnar the skald, who died the night after she left to go back to Nes.”

“You don’t know that,” Thora said, paler than ever.

“No, I don’t _know_ it, but—”

“Why would my mother do such things?” Sigurd asked, before they began to argue. To Disa, he sounded much calmer than she herself would have been, had she been in his place. He turned to Thora. “Is there more I should know?”

“Nothing that’ll please you. And it will please your mother even less that I’ve told you.”

“You’ve known me since I was born,” Sigurd said, leaning forward towards her. It could have been an intimidating gesture in a man his size, but his hands, coming to rest between his knees, were joined as if in supplication. He tried to catch her gaze. “Thora. Have I ever been one to punish the bearers of bad news?”

His tone was so gentle, Disa imagined it could have convinced just about anyone to do just about anything, but Thora wouldn’t as much as look at him. Tiny and shrivelled, she was just like the gnarled little pines that grew by the sea, the ones that had weathered thousands of storms without breaking.

In the end, she sighed. “You know it’s not you I’m worried about. But it seems I will have to speak, though I’d rather not.” 

“I would be grateful if you did,” Sigurd said. He filled his cup with ale and handed it to her.

She drank.

“My father was a warrior in your great grandfather’s hird,” she began, “then in your grandfather’s. When I was widowed, your grandfather asked me to keep house for him, and I remained here after your uncle became the jarl, then your father, then you.” She drank from her cup again, as if to fortify herself. “There’s no one who knows as much as I do about the lives of the women of Sunda.”

“Go on,” Sigurd said. Reflecting the firelight, his yellow eyes looked aflame, like those of an eagle owl.

“Your grandfather had one son who lived to adulthood: your uncle and namesake, Sigurd. And he had two daughters. Your mother was the daughter of your grandfather’s wife, but the other girl was the daughter of the vǫlva. Your mother spent much time with her half-sister, and her half-sister’s mother. It was there she became much-knowing.”

“And then?” Sigurd asked, when Thora fell quiet.

“Then, as always, there was a man.”

“My father. The jarl.”

Thora hummed. “He liked both of the girls well enough, and they liked him. But only one of them fell in love with him, and he loved her back. It was arranged that he should marry your mother, and that your mother’s sister should one day be the vǫlva. Unfortunately, it left everyone unhappy. Your mother would have preferred to become the vǫlva, and her sister would rather have lived in comfort with the man she loved.”

“So that’s why the mistress hated her,” Birsa said. “And it got even worse when her sister became the jarl’s lover.”

“I don’t know.” Thora wrapped herself tighter in her shawl. “It is beneath me to guess. Not long before the mistress’ half sister died, the mistress went to Eagle Island to see her. I saw her being rowed there by a thrall, then come back, late in the night. I thought it odd, as they hadn’t talked since they were girls.”

“Is that all?” Sigurd asked. “Is that everything you wanted to tell me?”

“It is.”

“Then you’ve done your part; the rest falls on me. Now I want you to leave.” 

Birsa rose without protest, which Disa hadn’t expected. Thora took her time.

“Not even your mother can keep your enemies away forever,” she said, and Disa couldn’t tell whether it was a threat or not. “But once it’s known you might be unfit to rule, they will come. If not tomorrow, then in a week, or a month.”

Sigurd accepted the words calmly. “So let’s make the most of the time she has given us.”

He stood, and escorted them outside. Then he remained by the door, as if listening to the sound of their steps and the opening and shutting of the door that opened into the hall proper. When he sat down again, he was paler than usual. He raked his hands through his hair and closed his eyes for a moment.

“I don’t know what to do,” he said, pressing his fingertips to his eyelids. “Or, rather, I know what to do, but I don’t want to do it.”

Disa didn’t reply. She waited.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Sigurd said. “I know what you’re thinking.”

“What need is there for me to speak, then?” she replied softly. “If you already know my mind?”

He sighed. “My mother was the mistress here for many years.” He didn’t look at her as he spoke. “She’s still the vǫlva. I can’t just summon her as if she were a thrall caught stealing bread.” He leaned his head in his hands.

Disa had lived under the mistress’ rule for six years. Sigurd had grown up with her. The fact that challenging her was the right thing to do didn’t make it any easier. She squeezed his arm. 

He straightened up. “It’s my duty, as her only male relative, to avenge Gersemi,” he said. “That is what the law says. But now it seems I can’t do so without committing a crime just as awful as letting her remain unavenged.” He frowned. “She is my mother! For nine months she carried me, and she laboured an entire day and a night to bring me into this world. I have her hair, her face, her hands. Her hugr and her mind. That is not a debt easily repaid.”

“I know.”

“I must ask the Spear-God.”

He went to the chest with all the strange things inside and removed a small bag. He spread his cloak on the floor, over a rug patterned in shades of red, and poured the contents of the bag – small pieces of wood carved with runes – onto the cloak. He crouched next to it and studied the runes in silence. Whatever he saw finally gave him certainty. He gathered the pieces again, put them away, and wrapped himself in his cloak.

“Come, my Dís,” he said. “Put on your cloak. We have much to do before our time runs out.”

*

He had Disa accompany him around Sunda: to the stables, where he chose his favourite horse; to the barns and byres, where he selected the finest beasts; to the smithy, where he ordered a new spear and dagger, and paid for it with silver. 

The snowing had almost stopped as they walked between the buildings. Huge flakes drifted fitfully from a threadbare blanket of clouds that did not even cover half of the fading sky. In the blue light, Sigurd’s skin looked like linen that had been worn out. It seemed too thin, too fragile to keep him together for much longer.

Once all his errands were done, he took her to the shore. Here, fewer people had stepped, and Disa felt her feet sink in the new snow. A little got inside her shoes, chilling her ankles. 

Sigurd led her into the largest of the boat houses. The ship inside was of a sort you rarely saw in Gardariki, where ships were made to navigate the rivers and rapids that formed the road to Miklagard of the Greeks, and to Serkland. The haughty black thing in front of them, ensconced in the darkness of its lair, was made to cross oceans.

Sigurd touched the prow, running his fingers along the wood that had been carved into a braided pattern. “Serpent,” he said, his voice bright, as if he were smiling inside. “Her name is Serpent.”

“She’s beautiful,” Disa said warily. It was a sort of beauty that was meant to awe, to strike terror into the onlooker. Serpent, indeed.

He took her hand and made her touch the carvings. Her fingers were reluctant at first, then curious. This was just wood, beautifully carved and masterfully crafted. A ship had no will of its own; it wasn’t what had taken her old life from her. Men had.

“Then there’s Swan, in the house to the left,” Sigurd continued, “and Sea Eagle to the right. The smaller ones are Raven, Sunda, Seagull, and… But it’s not important. Serpent shouldn’t be destroyed. I don’t want her burned with me. It would be a waste; she’s still too young to make her last journey.”

She’d guessed what their tour of Sunda had been all about, but his words had made her certain. She knew she should protest, but she was too tired to be able to muster the energy to do so. 

He led her out again. A gust of wind caught her cloak and almost made her fall over.

“There’s one more thing,” he said and offered her his hand. “Will you indulge me?”

“Of course.” She twined her fingers with his, as if she could offer him some solace like that, rather than with her words. It was still strange to her, how what had begun as pity had transformed into tenderness. 

He slowed down, adapting his pace to hers so that they moved in unison. When he stumbled – was it just the icy path uphill, or the invisible presence of his sister? – she moved closer, diving under his arm to support him.

“It’s just here,” he said and stopped in front of a building. He opened the door and let her step inside before he followed. 

The main room was a mess. There were clothes strewn about, and the beds on the benches were unmade. The rushes on the floor needed to be changed and the air was heavy with the scent of crowded young men. She felt her upper lip curl.

“This is my house,” Sigurd said, about to step over an otter-skin jerkin before he decided against it and picked it up. He folded it and placed it on a bench. “I had this house built when I became the jarl. I only ever used the jarl’s chambers for entertaining visitors before—” He felt quiet, before repeating the last word again, as though it had a meaning in and of itself.

She took his hand again. When he didn’t protest, she lifted it to her mouth and kissed his knuckles. There was a pause when he did nothing but stare at her mouth.

“A house needs to be lived in,” he said, looking away. “Or it decays. I house a few of my younger warriors here now, as you can see. But there’s one room they’re not allowed in.”

She followed him along the hearth towards the other end of the house. He opened a door and led her into the inner room. Once he’d lit a lamp, Disa saw a room that was uninhabited. The brazier was empty, the clothespegs bare, the floorboards uncovered by either rugs or rushes. The air was cool and still.

Half of the right side of the room was taken up by a curtained bed. Much of the rest of the room was densely packed with stacked chests. Sigurd opened a window shutter, revealing a waxed cloth that let in a little light without letting in too much of the cold. When he opened a second shutter, she could make out the tapestries that lined the walls.

There were no Volsungar here, and no warriors. Instead there was a vast, green forest full of beasts: birds sang in trees; deer and elk, half hidden behind the bulk of the chests, roamed the glades; a squirrel feasted on a pine cone. On the other wall, the predators were already closing in: wolves, a solitary lynx, a wolverine. Above them were the waiting ravens.

Sigurd had just opened the green bed curtains when he fell. It was as if he’d been pushed. He landed on a knee, with a sharp thud of bone against wood.

Disa helped him sit down on the bed. “Is she here?”

He didn’t reply, only hooked a finger into the cloth around his neck to bare the place where his left shoulder met his neck. He parted his legs so she could stand between them. She brushed his hair aside. There, the mark she’d left on him had been overlain by another. He’d been bitten from behind.

She removed the cloth altogether and opened his cloak to drag her thumb along the mark. The tendon underneath stood out, taut as a rope, when he turned his head to the other side to let her see.

“She doesn’t like you,” he said and she felt his pulse speed up. “She doesn’t like you touching me.”

The words hung between them for a moment. He shifted, slipping out of his cloak and away from her. He kicked off his shoes and settled inside the green dusk of his bed, against the mound of plump pillows by the carved headboard.

He glanced at her, waiting. Disa followed him, like she had already followed him into his house and his chamber. He turned further away and she was about to stop when he untied the ribbon that closed the neck hole of his shirt and bared his throat completely to her. His fingers didn’t tremble.

He didn’t want her to stop.

She straddled his lap, grabbed hold of his shoulders, and as he sunk into the pillows she leaned in further, until her breath was on his skin. She waited. When he didn’t attempt to push her away, she opened her mouth and put her lips over the mark. She licked at him, feeling the finest downy hair on skin that was rising into goosebumps. And still she waited.

“Disa,” he said, her name breaking with his voice into two distinct halves.

She opened her mouth wider and bit him.

It wasn’t like the first time, the one she couldn’t remember. This time it wasn’t Gersemi’s doing, but her own choice, and she chose to rein herself in and not bite hard enough to draw blood. She began to tear at his belt while he fumbled with his coat, shedding it, getting it out of the way. Then she was adding her hands to his as he briefly sat up to remove his tunic and shirt. 

He lay down again. The silver chain of his pendant was a ribbon of moonlight over his neck. The pendant itself had slipped to a side and was hidden in his hair. There was silver on his wrists, too. Rows of bracelets that glittered like the scales of a dragon.

She hesitated, but he didn’t. He reached for her hand and placed her fingers on his breast bone, on four matching welts. His heart was beating as fast as hers. She was breaking into a sweat, despite the cold. She wiped away a stray lock that had escaped her kerchief and plastered itself against her cheek.

She curled her fingers. He made no sound, but the muscles of his abdomen clenched as he arched mutely against her touch. Without breaking his skin, she traced the marks all the way down to his navel, to where her skirts pooled red over his white skin. She stared at her handiwork and heard her own blood rushing in her ears. 

Sigurd’s eyes had been closed and his face turned away, but when she didn’t move again, he opened his eyes to look at her. He swallowed a couple of times, his throat bobbing as he did so. He nodded at her, but she hesitated, fearing what she’d do to him if she gave in to the madness.

One of the windows slammed shut, then the other. The curtain was drawn fully aside so suddenly that Disa’s heart almost stopped.

The flame of the lamp danced but did not go out. The shifting shadows made the forest of the tapestries move, as if a high wind were tearing at the leaves. The animals moved, becoming taller and darker.

Sigurd reached out, as if to grab his shirt and cover himself. “She’s here now,” he said, a reply to the question she’d asked what seemed like a hundred years ago. 

Disa could feel the change in the air. Gersemi was indeed here, the way she had been here to ride Sigurd every night until he was forced to move into the jarl’s chambers. 

“You’re his sister,” Disa told the unseen presence brewing like a storm around them. “But I’m his wife. And I say he’s no longer yours to torment, _mara_.”

She watched the lamp splutter and burn bright in reply. Sigurd’s arms came to rest at his sides. He was utterly still. His eyes moved, as if he were tracking something that wasn’t visible to her. She moved her head slightly, putting herself in his line of vision, making sure she had his attention. 

She squeezed him tighter between her thighs. It was like the moment just before kicking her heels into the sides of one of her father’s prized stallions, that wonderful anticipation of the instant when her will and her body would fuse with the horse’s as they set off like an arrow across the plain.

Tonight, she would be the one to ride him in the dark. 

She bowed down. She chose a bite mark on his left collarbone and put her mouth to it, fitting her teeth to where the invisible teeth had been. She claimed that little piece of him. Nothing happened to stop her, and she went on the next mark, and the next. Sigurd lay still under her, his arms stretched out along his sides. He made no sound, but when she looked, his hands were clenched into fists, grabbing the blanket underneath.

She used her teeth and nails to map out every mark from his neck to the waist of his trousers. Only then did she hesitate, with her fingers already tangled in the drawstring. A moment later – she could tell from a quick glance at the bright flush on his face – and he’d lift his hips. 

Now she could see that he’d lied to her on the night of their wedding. Without the folds of his coat to hide behind, without even the thick padding of her own skirts and denial, she could no longer ignore the fact that he was no gelding. Curse or not, it was clear that he was fully capable of claiming his rights as a husband. 

She drew back, disgusted. Fear came sweeping over her, threatening to wash away all her strength and resolve. She waited, her body already bracing itself for the pain of his intrusion.

Nothing happened. He could easily have overpowered her; using the strength of his body, or that of his words, but he did nothing. He remained, with his throat bared to her teeth, like an animal showing submission. 

Slowly, she leaned over him again, her hands settling on the bruised crests of his hip bones. She watched his chest and stomach rising and falling with his ragged breath. His eyes were closed, so that his long lashes cast fanned shadows on his cheekbones, like smudged soot. He was biting into his lower lip. 

Had she been bolder, she would have told him how beautiful he was. How he was so lovely she wasn’t sure if she wanted to devour him or weep.

Instead, she reached for his left arm, still unable to take her eyes from his face. He let her. She peeled off the bracelets and grabbed his wrist, digging her fingers into the marks already there. It had to hurt, more than anything else she’d done, but he allowed it, like he allowed the biting and scratching that followed.

She traced her way up to his shoulder, feeling muscles and tendons contract and fan out, moving under his skin as he fought to stay still. She did the same to his other arm, scattering his bracelets, adding to the disarray of rumpled blankets and cloaks around them.

The air around them was warm now, as damp as she was. She could feel the sweat cooling on her back, gathering under her breasts, making her shift stick to her underarms. There was another dampness, too, but that wasn’t sweat.

Then she wanted him to turn over. He didn’t understand at first. Her skirts got in the way when he finally did, and she had to dismount to let him roll over. He lay down with his forehead resting on his arms, hiding his face.

She had forgotten about the extent of the bruises on his back. The pale, freckled skin of his shoulders was mottled with them, inscribed by claws so that it looked like he’d been whipped. The intricate construction of bone and muscle that formed his shoulders and the back of his neck, the wing-like shape of his shoulder blades, it was all of it tarnished by the unclean thing that refused to leave him alone.

_How dare you_ , she thought, unable to say anything out loud for fear of him thinking she was blaming him. _How dare you!_

She seated herself on his backside. The swell of it seemed to hold what spare flesh still existed on his body. When her weight settled on him and her skirts fell over the bare flesh of his lower back, he moaned. His fingers, curled into his upper arms, relaxed. Instead, it was she who tensed. She clenched her thighs, holding on. The fabric of his trousers rubbed against the bare skin above her knees like a caress.

She pressed her mouth to the bump where his neck ended and his spine began. She almost felt the responding shiver that travelled all the way down his body. 

She did to his back what she’d done to the front. But when she was done, when there were no more bruises and scratches to claim, she still wanted more. She was panting now. She came up and brushed away his hair. She buried her face against his neck and licked him, just below the ear. The skin under her tongue was unmarked. She opened her mouth wider and sucked. 

Even through the fog in her head, she knew she’d leave a mark he wouldn’t easily be able to cover up. She felt the vein pulse underneath her lips. Her own blood, loud in her ears, beat the same rhythm. She sucked hard, worrying the skin with her tongue. She sucked until he tried to speak.

He cleared his throat and she let go. The wet smack of it was too loud in the silent room.

“She’s gone,” he said, out of breath. “For now, she’s gone.”

She remained on top of him, her face nestled against the back of his neck, one hand on his shoulder and the other tangled in his red-gold hair. She felt sated and not, but also hollow, ready to be filled with shame. She’d lost her kerchief at some point, and her plait lay like a black rope over Sigurd’s arm.

What he felt, she didn’t know. He was breathing slowly, his body limp and used underneath her, strangely satisfied by not having been satisfied. He smelled of fresh sweat, as if he’d exerted himself; she could smell nothing of the sourness of sickness, or the metal edge of fear.

A sound from the other room stirred them.

Disa sat up. One of her brooches had come unclasped. Sigurd was in an even worse state. She gathered his clothes for him.

“Hurry,” she said, as she picked up the bracelets.

Clumsily, he sat up, facing her. There was a line etched across his chest where the needle of her brooch had marked him. He touched the wound. The blood had dried.

It seemed to wake him up, and he dressed quicker than she’d thought him capable of. She was left to refasten the strap of her smokkr with the brooch, then smooth down the fabric. There was a smear of blood on her that matched his wound. She covered it with her coat, then her cloak.

Sigurd had just put his own cloak back on when someone entered the room.

It was a young man, little more than a boy, really. As he watched them, his expression turned from curiosity into something like embarrassed fear. He stared at the floor, the blond waves of his hair framing his face.

“You wished to see us, lord?”

“I’ve been showing my wife the house, Geir,” Sigurd said, and Disa was sure he’d used the boy’s name for her sake, so she wouldn’t feel left out. Neither his voice nor his expression betrayed anything of what they’d been up to just a little while ago. He was the jarl again, despite Disa’s mark darkening just below his ear. “Where are the others? Are they aware of the state of this place? You shame me. In front of my wife, no less.”

Geir’s pale cheeks coloured. He shot Sigurd a quick glance of his narrow, blue-green eyes. “I’m sorry. The others are in the hall. They sent me to fetch another set of dice.” Then he nodded at Disa, his eyes lingering on her for a moment too long, taking in her untidy clothes and swollen mouth. His nostrils widened, and she imagined he could smell the lust on her; the thick fug of it in the room.

“We need to go,” Sigurd told him, after he, too, had glanced at Disa, as if seeing her through Geir’s eyes. “Make sure you clean this place. I’m not dead yet.”

“Lord,” Geir said, bowing. He paused for a moment too long, then added, “Mistress.”

Disa took Sigurd’s arm and followed him outside, leaving Geir to make what he would of the rumpled bed. She thought she could feel his gaze bore into her, seeing through her clothes to ogle at her naked body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary
> 
> Vǫlva - Staff-carrier or wand-carrier. A female seer who performed the seið and had specialised ritual knowledge.
> 
> Much-knowing (fjǫlkunnigr) - to be much-knowing was to have knowledge of practices which we might term "magic" or "sorcery".
> 
> Miklagard of the Greeks - Constantinople (nowadays Istanbul, Turkey). Miklagard more or less means "the big city", which is what it was to everyone who lived in the surrounding areas. Greece (Krikland) was all of Byzantium.
> 
> Serkland - The Abbasid Caliphate and neighbouring regions. Probably a Norse catch-all term for predominantly Muslim regions.
> 
> Mara - Personified nightmare, thought to ride people in the night. 
> 
> Ride - The mara wasn't the only one thought to "ride" people, or the only "rider". Several Old Norse words for "witch" or "sorceress" include references to riding, such as kveldriða (female evening rider), myrkriða (female darkness rider), and tunriða (female farmyard/courtyard rider). This probably refers to aspects of them leaving their body and "riding" through the air to influence matters elsewhere. To haunt someone, or attack them by supernatural means (just as Sigurd was attacked), could be referred to as riding someone.
> 
> If you want to read more about the writing of this chapter, you can do so [here](https://ceceril.dreamwidth.org/12101.html)


	21. Beasts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The glossary and link to the companion post are in the end notes, as per usual.
> 
> Warnings: Mentions of torture/violence, allusions to rape, general unpleasantness.

***

When they returned to the jarl’s chambers, Disa sent the serving boys to fetch hot water and clean linen. Now that the madness had abated, she could scarcely believe what she’d done. She could feel a headache building behind her eyes, and now that the sweat was cooling on her skin, her body felt weak. Her feelings were like silt muddling the clear stream of her thoughts. She needed stillness to let them settle. 

Although part of her just wanted to lie down, alone, and forget about everything, Sigurd looked to be in a worse state than she was, and he needed to be cared for. 

“They couldn’t wait to get away,” Sigurd said, once the boys had come and gone again. He sighed. “I shouldn’t be too hard on them. They’re frightened. They all are. Did you see Geir’s face?”

“They’re not afraid of you,” she said, uneasy as she recalled the way Geir had studied her. “They’re afraid because there’s something out there killing people.”

“It’s the same thing.” He sank down on the bed. His shoulders hunched. He looked so tired. “It’s all because of me. Because what I am. Don’t you see? What I made you do—”

“You didn’t make me do anything.” Now she had to look him in the eye, or he’d think she was lying to him. 

She was about to blurt it all out: that she had wanted it, needed it. How could he have been there and not noticed? If he hadn’t looked so confused, she would have said it. Besides, she couldn’t understand his need to talk; she wanted to care for him without words, just as she had marked him without words.

“But I did,” he said. “It’s because I’m argr. I make people want to—” he swallowed and didn’t finish the sentence. She thought that he would leave it at that, but instead he went on. “My men,” he said tentatively, picking at the hem of his coat, as if trying to pull it further down over his legs. “They can sense that I’m changing. Like a pack of dogs smelling that one of them isn’t what he’s supposed to be. Something’s wrong and they know it. It frightens them even more because I’m their lord. I’m not so easy to get rid of.”

“Don’t say that.”

“And yet it’s true.”

“Now who’s being afraid? They’re not out to kill you. Why don’t you let me care for your wound instead?”

“I didn’t say they were. My scent worries them because everything that is neither one thing nor the other worries. As I change further, they won’t smell the leader of their pack, but a bitch in heat, and you know what will happen to me then.”

His words made cold tendrils of fear begin to ensnare her, but she simply couldn’t afford to be reduced into a trembling mess. “Don’t say such disgusting things,” she said, but she couldn’t fully control her thoughts. With the fear came doubt. Was there something about him that had made her act the way she did? Had the same thing happened to Biarni as he got involved with Gersemi, when she had him do things to her that made him feel dirty? She shook her head. No, she had wanted what she had wanted. That had been a part of her long before she met him. “And besides, it’s not as if your men are animals.”

“They’re warriors,” he said darkly. She opened her mouth to rebuke him, but he spoke before she could utter a single word. “No, listen. If whatever you sensed in me could provoke you – a woman! – into doing what you just did to me, then what do you think it’ll get my men to—”

“Shut up,” she said. “Just shut up!” For a moment, she was about to slap him, anything to silence him, but she couldn’t. Whatever she’d done to him, or they’d done together, she didn’t have it in her to hurt him in anger. 

He blinked.

She covered his mouth with her palm. “Don't. You’re frightening me.” She couldn’t quite put into words what she really wanted to say: that what he’d said threatened to open up the gates to memories she couldn’t bear to remember.

He dropped his gaze. She stepped in between his legs and hugged him. He bowed his head and hugged her back, his long arms enveloping her. It felt so much better than it should, like a natural continuation of what they’d done before. 

“I don’t want to frighten you,” he said, his voice muffled against her bosom. “Never.”

She stroked his hair, but stopped herself just before she kissed the top of his head. “There’s nothing wrong with you. Nothing. And we’ll put things right here, I promise. There will be no more deaths.”

When he nodded, she let go. She didn’t want to, but no matter what she’d felt when they were together in his house, he wasn’t hers to hold on to. Soon, the curse would be broken. She would have saved him and the thing that had existed between them would vanish. He’d forget her.

“You won’t die,” she said, her hands on her hips. “Haven’t I told you that I’ll save you?”

There was a small pause. Eventually, he nodded. He rubbed his eyes. He looked like the only thing he wanted was to lie down and sleep for a week.

“Now let me have a look at that wound.”

“It’s no wound. It’s nothing, just a scratch.”

But when he stripped, she saw that it was bleeding again, and that there was blood smeared into the skin around it. She hesitated. 

“Don’t worry,” he said. “It doesn’t hurt.”

“I don’t understand how I could have—” She swallowed and tried again. “I’m so sorry—”

His skin was rising into goosebumps. His nipples had puckered; she’d never really noticed them before. They were like tiny bee-stings on his flat chest, so much smaller and pinker than her own. In trying not to look at them, she looked at his pendant instead. This close, and in the slanting light of a lamp, she could see that the curlicues on the surface depicted a one-eyed figure dancing ecstatically, circled by ravens.

She was still for a moment too long.

“I told you, you’re not to blame,” he said. “You did nothing to me that I didn’t want.” He took her hand and made her touch the cloth to his injury. Nothing happened. He didn’t cry out in pain; he didn’t even wince. 

She tried to reply, but it came out in an odd little stutter, and besides, she couldn’t find the words.

“See?” he said. “It’s not that bad. I’ve had people treat me far worse.” As if he were the one who needed to distract her from pain, he kept talking. “I was taken prisoner once. By the English. Some of them wanted to kill me rather than keep me for ransom. So they told me what they’d do to me – their tongue isn’t all that different to ours, so we understand each other well enough, did you know? Anyway, if I hadn’t been parched – it was hot, and I’d lost a lot of blood – I would’ve pissed myself. Then they untied my eyes and made me watch as they killed one of the other jarls. They disembowelled him and cut off—”

“I don’t want to know,“ she said, and he fell silent.

Once she was done, there was nothing more she could do for him, and she let him rest. She knew no one expected her to be confined to this room in the daytime, but she simply didn’t want to leave him alone like this. She went to the hearth, put a few more logs on the fire and sat down to watch it burn. She wished she’d had something else to do. A ribbon, or some embroidery; something to keep her hands busy and to steer her thoughts towards more mundane matters. 

She hadn’t thought to bring anything from Nes, and she hadn’t asked for anything here. There was nothing to stop her, but she felt awkward about it. At Nes, she’d got used to making herself as invisible as possible, and she was still doing it here. The last thing she wanted was to draw attention to herself, despite the fact that she was doing so by merely existing.

She wished he’d leave for a while and let her be on her own. She needed to wash, and so did he, but it felt like too much to do it together. 

“What are you thinking about?” he asked.

She jolted. She’d almost thought he’d gone to sleep, he’d been so quiet. She turned around. “Nothing. Why do you ask?”

“Because you’re doing it so loudly I can almost hear it.”

“Can you? Can you really?”

He’d been lying back against the pillows, but now he sat up and hugged his knees. He was all angles and impossibly long limbs. “No, of course not. It doesn’t work like that.” He tucked a strand of silky, red-gold hair behind his ear.

She would much rather they speak about this than the other thing. “Then how does it?”

“What?”

“The wolf warrior thing.”

“Oh, that.” He blinked. He seemed almost coy.

“Can you bend people’s minds to your will?” She swallowed. “Did you tamper with mine?”

The question fell like a stone into water, sending out ripples.

“Have I...” He looked at his fingers, which were smoothing down the fabric of his trousers over his left shin. Then he looked at her again. “Will you come and sit with me, or can I join you? These things shouldn’t be shouted across the room.”

She patted the seat next to her. He untangled his limbs and slid cat-like out of the bed. Someone so tall and lanky shouldn’t be so elegant. 

He joined her and took her hand. When she didn’t protest, he turned it over and traced a finger along the lines in her palm while he talked. She shivered as the featherlight touch brushed her wrist. 

“Do you think that I’ve done something to you?” he asked, muted. “Was it just now? What we did before?”

She shook her head. She couldn’t lie to him, or to herself. “I didn’t do anything I didn’t want.”

He swallowed, and his finger stopped, just for a moment. For some reason, it made her skin prickle, as if more of her needed to be touched by him. She wanted to curl up next to him and sleep. She wanted to curl up on top of him and sleep.

“When I came here,” she blurted out, in reply to his earlier question, perhaps. “I was so frightened of you. And now I’m not. You’re not what I thought you’d be.” 

“Neither are you. Mother said she’d bring a much-knowing woman. She tricked me. But I think it was meant to be. Nothing happens that the gods have not decreed.”

“If I’d been much-knowing, I’d been of more use to you.” Her heart was pounding in her chest.

“No. There’s too much of that here already. Someone with common sense is better.” He paused. “And just so you know, I haven’t done anything with your mind. I think it’s Sunda itself, the things that happen here. It’s the lack of sleep. We’re all going mad.”

She did feel a little mad, a little reckless. But it wasn’t the wild madness of before, but something different. It was just like ages ago, in Aldeigjuborg, when she’d drunk too much ale during a feast. 

“I would like to know if you turn into a wolf, and if so, how.” The question hadn’t sounded so stupid in her head.

“I am one of my lord’s wolf warriors.” When she looked at his face, he wasn’t looking at her hand anymore. His finger had stilled.

“You become a wolf? You howl at the moon?”

He shook his head and let go of her hand. For some reason she was reminded of a cat that had grown tired of being petted, though he’d been the one petting her. “No, of course not. It doesn’t work that way.” He was silent. “A wolf!” he said it very quietly, as if to himself. He sounded affronted.

“Everyone says that men like you go into battle with gladness in your hearts, that you become wolves. They say you can put out fires, dull blades, and bend the will of others. That you feel no pain and no fear.”

“Everybody feels pain and fear,” he said, as if explaining something to a child. “Someone who didn’t wouldn’t live for long. But it’s possible to make it seem like you don’t. To others. And perhaps to yourself, for a while.”

“And the other things?”

“They are mysteries. Things only the Spear-God’s own warriors know.” He paused and seemed to consider the question again, what she’d said, and what she’d meant. “People fear that which they can’t control and can’t appease. If we’re beasts in battle, our enemies fear us more than they would if they just saw us as ordinary men. And it’s easier to do what you have to do if you tell yourself you’re a beast. Beasts feel nothing, so they can do anything. Then, when it’s over, the beast is gone, and the man returns. And the man doesn’t have to think about the things the beast did.”

The words chilled her and made her sober again.

“Some warriors,” she said, meaning _most_ , “are beasts all the time.”

There was nothing more to discuss after that. 

“I’ll send for more water,” he said, rising to his feet, though he looked like he would much rather stay. “I’ll use the bath house, but it might be more comfortable for you to stay here. We must look our best tonight. It’s important.”

*

Kata was still not back, and instead it was Birsa who helped Disa get ready. It was evident she had more knowledge of such things than Kata had, and she coiled up Disa’s hair in a coiffure that felt to Disa’s fingers as if it looked wonderful. She wished she could have seen it herself.

Her eyes – perfectly outlined in black – she did see, reflected back at her from a basin of water. Within the thick rim of soot, the irises looked the duskiest, darkest of green, with specks of gold. She couldn’t deny that the effect was pleasing.

Once she’d put on every bead and necklace, every suitable bracelet and tiny finger-ring that they could find, Birsa draped the finest red shawl over her hair and shoulders.

“There,” she said, stepping back to really look, and smiling widely with all the pride of a craftswoman who had just finished a masterpiece. “If he doesn’t think you look your best now, he’s either blind or completely lacking in taste. You look so much like a goddess that we should just start making offerings at you.” Then she quickly made the sign against evil, just in case the gods themselves were listening.

Disa took a step towards her. The heavy, red skirts rustled around her like a carapace, while the layers of jewellery made her clink and clatter like a merchant’s coffer. She felt as if she must be weighing about as much as the ship Sigurd had shown her. But unlike it, she didn’t even have water to make her buoyant, or a crew of men to haul her; she had to make her own labourious way into the hall proper, with Birsa stepping respectfully a few steps behind.

And yet, the look on people’s faces as she entered, as she made her way to Sigurd, made it all worth it. She wasn’t just something strange and fascinating now. The treasure piled on her – silk and silver, gems and gold – made her something she hadn’t been in her thrall’s grey, or in the finery of a rich merchant’s nubile daughter. She was _someone_ now.

Out of all the men at the high table, only Sigurd watched her with sadness. 

“We must both play our parts now, my Dís,” he whispered once she’d settled next to him. Then he turned to the mistress, seated at his other side, and all but invisible from where Disa sat. 

“I want you to serve the mead tonight, mother. The aged mead; the finest.”

To Disa’s surprise, she obeyed. Slow and stately, with her head held high, she walked the mead-path: from the high table through the hall, to the kitchens at the other end. The serving girls followed in her wake.

Having returned with the mead, the girls served the people sitting in the lower hall, while the mistress served the ones sitting at the high table. Her mouth tightened when she leaned in to fill Disa’s cup, but she behaved impeccably, her movements managing to convey that peculiar mixture of pride and submission that came from years of training.

Once the meal was coming to a close, Sigurd stood. His splendid finery, as red as Disa’s own, was like a flame. His men all wore greens and blues, violets and darker shades. 

“For nine winters, I have been your ruler,” he said, his voice filling the hall. “This one might be the last.” How could silence grow more silent? It spread around him, like cold air from an open door. “I have served the Spear-God since I became a man, and I put my fate in his hands. May he find me worthy.” He rolled up his sleeves, baring the rows of silver bracelets adorning his arms. “Eyvindr,” he said.

The steward, sitting next to Disa, rose and went to kneel next to Sigurd. Then he got up again as Sigurd took his hands.

“You’ve always served me well,” Sigurd said. “Just as your father served my father and my uncle. You’re trustworthy, loyal, and a good man. I hope you’ll be able to say the same of me one day.” He removed one of the bracelets from his arm and gave it to him.

Eyvindr’s voice was thick when he replied, “I’ll say you were the best of men, lord; the best of the jarls of Sunda.” He paused before he cleared his throat and continued. “A great warrior, a man who knew the old ways, someone who always gave the gods their due.”

Sigurd leaned over him and they embraced, pressing their foreheads and noses together before Eyvindr returned to his seat.

“Thiostolf,” Sigurd said.

Like the steward before him, Thiostolf came and knelt, then rose as Sigurd took his hands. For a moment, the similarities between them made them look like brothers. They were both tall and slender, but where Sigurd had reddish hair, Thiostolf was as silvery blond as the mistress. And unlike Sigurd’s large, wide-spaced eyes and fine mouth, all of Thiostolf’s features seemed crammed into the middle of his face, leaving his forehead and chin looking too wide and bare.

“Thiostolf,” Sigurd repeated. “Glad I was for your presence by my side in battle; for your strong hand carrying my raven banner and your serpent glare striking fear into the enemy. They say the time of heroes is past, but having seen you fight, I know you would hold your own against the men of the legends.”

“Prince!“ Just as Sigurd’s voice, Thiostolf’s had the timbre of a skald. “Ring-giver! What have I ever done, but to follow the example you set me? Like a brand you were to me, like a flaming beacon. Has anyone ever served a braver lord than I have? A master more handsome and glorious? You were always the first to enter the battlefield and the last to leave it. Manfully, you sheathed your sword in the flesh of our enemies and wet it in their wounds. I reddened my own at your side, as you gave the carrion crows a feast! You fed the eagles on Ireland, in England, on the shores of Valland. When you’re gone, they’ll say your mother had a son – and what a son – not just daughters.”

Disa glimpsed the man’s face for a moment, as Sigurd moved. His face had deepened in colour, as if he were doing his best to hide something – shame? – by working himself into a fit of apoplexy. From the hushed whisperings coming from the lower tables, it seemed his speech was well received. Apparently, there was nothing quite as moving to a crowd as hearing a great warrior put his manly feelings into ornate words. 

Disa could barely keep her irritation in check. From the words spoken, it would seem Sigurd was already dead, that they were toasting him at his funeral.

Once Thiostolf, moved almost to the point of tears, had been given a bracelet, another warrior was called forth, then another, until it seemed that all of the warriors that made up the core of the jarl’s hird had been rewarded. The exchange of compliments followed the same pattern. It was like listening to one of the tiresome poems about a great warrior’s death and entry into the next world. As she listened, Disa’s irritation turned into anger. Did no one but she care that Sigurd was convinced he was about to die?

Then Biarni was made to come forward. Unlike the others, he sauntered towards the high seat like a man entering enemy territory. He didn’t kneel, only bowed his head, which made a few of the warriors mutter under their breaths. 

For him, Sigurd removed the wide bracelet on his left wrist, the one that he’d used to hide the bruises he was now shamelessly displaying to his people.

“Here, master smith,” Sigurd said, lower and – to Disa’s ears – more intimate, without ever becoming inaudible. “You’re a weaponsmith, but I trust you know a silversmith’s masterpiece when you see one.”

Biarni took his time examining the thing, turning it over in his hands. People began to shift in their seats. “It’s a fine trinket,” he said at last. “But it’s worth nothing to me if you’re gone. They say the Spear-God’s hall is so vast and full of heroes eight hundred of them can pass through the door at the same time. I don’t see how he has more need of you than we do.” He handed it back.

Someone gasped. As the words reached the lower table, there was visible unrest. A woman who’d been weeping at the warriors’ speeches stopped in shock. The mistress leaned forward in her seat, her fingers curled into claws.

“Blasphemy!” one of the warriors cried out. “He’s disrespecting the gods!”

This was followed by more cries, but Disa heard Sigurd chuckle. “You’re insane,” he whispered to Biarni. “You’ve insulted every last one of them.” Then, softer still, barely audible, as if he were flaunting Biarni one of the smiles he’d never given her, “I don’t deserve you.”

“No, you don’t, Siggi,” Biarni replied, hushed. “Not when you’ve given up, you don’t. I’d fight for you until my last breath, with my bare hands if I had to. And yet you think you can just throw your life away like it’s worthless, like our love for you is worthless! I’m glad my poor parents aren’t alive to see this day!”

He returned to his seat, briefly nodding at Disa as he passed her. The hubbub around them continued.

“Silence!” Sigurd cried. His voice cut through the noise like shears through cloth. “And you, Geir, sit down again.”

It was only now that Disa noticed that it was the youth from before – the one they’d met in Sigurd’s house – who’d risen from his seat. He was holding an eating knife the way one held a dagger.

“But lord,” Geir cried, the pretty face rigid with anger. “The smith insulted the gods, and you. Let me teach him a lesson!”

“With _that_?”

“I’ll take him outside and use a sword, if I must, though I don’t think he deserves it. He’s no warrior.”

“You’re right he’s no warrior.” Sigurd’s eyebrows rose a fraction. “He’s a smith, a man who’s dedicated his life to mastering the mystery that is fire. He’s been blessed by the gods with a rare skill, which makes him worth a fourscore of warriors.”

“But… But—”

“No. I’m tired of your insolence. Now sit down, before I have my housekeeper put you over her knee and spank your bare bottom with her shoe.”

Now Geir’s white face turned red. He didn’t sit down of his own volition, but the fight went out of him, which allowed the young men at each side of him to pull him down.

Sigurd remained standing. Only when he seemed certain there would be no more disturbances did he reach for Disa’s hand.

“Let’s retire,” he said. 

She took his hand and let herself be led away. She looked up at Sigurd, but his face was a mask that offered no clues to his real feelings.

“Come and see me, mother,” he told the mistress as they passed her.

There had to have been some other signal that Disa had been unaware of, for they were followed to the jarl’s chambers by all the serving boys and girls and Thora the housekeeper. As they reached the jarl’s chambers, Sigurd gifted them all something: pieces of silver for the young ones, and a brooch for Thora.

Thora was the last to leave. Before she did, she reached up and touched Sigurd’s cheek. Her hand looked wrinkled and flecked with age against his pale, unlined skin.

“Despite everything, you’re a good boy,” she said. “A good man. It’s a shame none of those thick-headed warriors of yours remembered to tell you that.”

Then she patted his cheek, twice, before she left, carefully closing the door behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary
> 
> Argr - Unmanliness or effeminacy, involving traits such as cowardice, shiftiness, being easily manipulated, unloyal to one's kin, associated with the paranormal, and having been anally penetrated by another man.
> 
> One-eyed figure - The god Óðinn, the god of warriors and lords.
> 
> Wolf warrior (Úlfhéðinn/úlfhéðnar. Úlfhéðinn is the singular, úlfhéðnar the plural) - Warriors associated with spears, wolves, and the god Óðinn. Similar, but less well-known, to the berserkr (fearsome elite warriors thought to either "shift" and become beasts, or enter a sort of trance-like state as they fought).
> 
> Much-knowing (fjǫlkunnigr) - to be much-knowing was to have knowledge of practices which we might term "magic" or "sorcery".
> 
> Mead-path (medo-stīg) - This is actually an Old English expression, from Beowulf, where it denotes the path to the mead-hall that the lady of the house walks to serve mead to the guests.
> 
> Siggi - Shortened or affectionate form of Sigurd.
> 
> If you want to read more about the writing of this chapter, you can do so [here](https://ceceril.dreamwidth.org/12325.html).


	22. Jorunn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: discussions of human sacrifice and incest.
> 
> There's a glossary and a link to a companion post in the end notes.

**PART TEN – The eighth night**

***

Sigurd remained by the door for a moment, his hands clenched into fists. Then his shoulders rose and sank, as though he’d taken a deep breath. He turned around. 

“Mother—” he said. His voice broke. He swallowed, shook his head and began again. “Mother will come and see me. She’ll take her time; she thinks if she makes me wait it’s less of an insult to her. But she will come. She knows as well as I do that the end is already foretold. That all that remains for us is to act it out.”

“What exactly will you do?” Disa asked. His words were so ladened with doom and gloom. On top of everything she’d already witnessed in the hall, she feared what would happen.

She knew not to show that fear. Instead, she would deal with him the way she would have dealt with a nervous horse or a frightened child, by pretending to be calm and reasonable. 

So she went to sit by the hearth and patted the empty space next to her. He joined her. Tiredness had highlighted the harshness of his face, making his weariness look like cruelty.

“I’m going to ask her about Gersemi. It’s what you wanted all along, isn’t it?” There was an edge to his voice. Not anger, but the helpless irritation of someone trying to find anything on which to vent some of his fear.

“This isn’t about me.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You’re right. Forgive me.” Then he shrugged off his dark mood and looked at her. “There’s something else. I have something for you.” He opened the pouch that hung from his belt.

“I don’t want anything. You said yourself I’m not a servant. I don’t need to be paid.” 

But he wouldn’t listen. He removed something from the pouch, but kept it hidden. “Give me your hand.”

She refused, but he wouldn’t put the thing back. She sighed and gave in. He took her wrist and placed something in her palm. When he removed his hand, she saw that it was a pair of earrings. She didn’t need to ask where they’d been made.

“Miklagard.” She was so overcome with unexpected emotion the word came out somewhere between a nervous giggle and a sob. It was the closest she’d been to crying since that damned ship took her away from Aldeigjuborg.

“Do you like them?”

“They’re beautiful.” She touched one of them with a curious finger, tracing the filigreed disk that formed the main part. The outer edge was studded with tiny pearls. Suspended from the disk in golden chains hung three larger pearls, smooth and lustrous, like the solidified teardrops of a goddess. “My mother had a pair almost like these.” She hadn’t meant to say it. It just came out. “My father bought them for her on one of his trips to Miklagard.”

She brought the earrings to her nose, as if, by some miracle, she would still be able to smell her mother: the rich scent of roses and wood that she’d thought were a part of her, until she learned that it came from the vials the traders brought from the east.

“Your ears are pricked,” Sigurd said. “Women here never do that. I thought…” He trailed off.

She touched her left earlobe. “They’re probably closed by now.“ She went to one of the lamps. In the silence of the room the clinking and rattling of her jewellery was unexpectedly loud. She unclasped the hook that would go into her ear and held it in the flame. She did the same with the second earring before returning to him. “You’ll have to help me.” She pulled down her veil so that it lay around her shoulders.

He kneeled on the floor by her side so that they were face to face.

“You just put this part into the hole. Then you close the clasp.” She bit her tongue, but the indecency seemed to pass him by.

He nodded again, looking serious. He took the earring she offered him and cupped her chin in his hand. “Turn your head a little. I need more light.”

When she complied, he brushed away a stray lock of hair that had curled itself around her ear. The dangling pearls in his hand caressed her neck and made her shiver. She blinked, feeling her sooted eyelashes flutter against her cheekbones.

“Tell me if I’m hurting you.” He leaned in closer, letting go of her face to pinch her earlobe. “The hole looks too small. I’m not sure…”

By now it had to be impossible for him not to notice how hot her skin was. His breath on her neck made a current ripple through her body and nearly had her gasp out loud. But the rush of queer pleasure had a cold underswell. 

Even when they’d been in his bed and done whatever it was they’d done, she had been the one in some semblance of control. She wasn’t now. But although this was just his fingers on her earlobe and his breath on her skin, she felt exposed. The notion of a man being the master of her pleasure, whether by his caresses, or his gifts, was hateful to her. 

She must have tensed, for he stopped. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.” She sat up straighter. It was just jewellery. She’d had her mother and her servants help her with earrings countless times before.

“Then I’ll just—”

She thought he’d make a mess of it. That he’d poke around and stop halfway through. But there was just the briefest sting, and it was done. The other ear took even less time.

“You’re bleeding,” he said. His knees clicked as he got up. “I’ll just get you something.”

He went and returned, and sat down next to her. She accepted the offered piece of linen and wiped away the stray drops of blood. She wished there’d been a mirror, but she had to settle on touching the earrings, on feeling them jangle against her neck. 

They were a married woman’s ornaments, not a girl’s. The unease was gone for now, and she felt as if she’d grown a foot taller.

“They’re so much like my mother’s.”

Sigurd’s forehead creased. “Is that a good thing?”

She smiled. “It is. Very much.”

There was already a little colour on his cheeks, and now it deepened. His lips parted. When she leaned in closer and reached for him, he rose so hastily he almost upended the seat, as clumsy as a boy of thirteen. He lifted his hands, then let them fall with a sigh.

“I wish things had been different,” he said. “You are so… You deserve better.” His jaw tensed at the end of the last word, as if he’d clenched his teeth to keep more words from escaping.

“Better than what?” She felt ashamed for having been rejected. She knew the colour on her own cheeks had to be as high as that of his.

“Me. This place. My mother. My unliving sister. Any of it; all of it.” He frowned, but the firelight made his pale eyebrows almost invisible, and it was just the scant flesh of his face that moved. “But it ends tonight.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but he had already turned away. He went to pick up his sword from one of the chests. Whatever she’d meant to say vanished. She stared at him, unable to even move as he came closer.

He didn’t join her again, but seated himself at the opposite side of the fire. He unsheathed the sword, making the bright steel shine in the firelight. He handled it with reverence, with something like love, the way he’d touched the ship he’d shown her. He flicked his wrist, admiring the blade, clearly taking delight in the feel of the grip in his hand. 

Then, as soon as it had appeared, the surge of joy was gone. The ease and fluidity of his movements stopped abruptly and he settled with his shoulders hunched and his face all hard and forbidding. He found a whetstone and began to sharpen the blade. The rhythmic swishing of stone against metal made the hair rise at the back of Disa’s neck. 

He kept at it – as silent as she, refusing to say another word – until at last the door opened and the mistress entered.

“Welcome, mother,” he said. He sheathed the sword and placed it next to him on the seat.

The mistress looked from him to Disa. “Why is she here?”

“There has to be a witness. Be grateful we’re not doing this in front of everyone.”

“You wouldn’t want that any more than I do. But as you please. Let her stay. What do you want from me?”

“I want to ask you about my sister, Gersemi. What do you know about her death?”

“Why don’t you just ask me whether I killed her? My Sigurd wouldn’t have beaten about the bush like that!”

“I’m not him, as you’re so fond of telling me. So. Did you kill my father’s daughter?”

The mistress stared back at him, defiant. “I did.”

“You know it’s my duty, as her only male relative, to demand justice for her.”

“Of course.”

“She was a jarl’s daughter, mother. My sister. You always taught me we don’t accept blood money. We’ll feud until all of us are dead, if that’s what it takes. She must be avenged.”

“Of course,” she said. “It’s only right.” 

When he did nothing, she stepped closer. She took his sword and unsheathed it before she handed it to him, the blade lying flat between her outstretched palms. Despite the formality of the gesture – as if she’d been a valkyrja presenting a mythical blade to a young hero – there was an obvious challenge in it. A dare. 

Disa couldn’t see the mistress expression, but she didn’t need to.

When Sigurd took the sword, reluctantly, the mistress laughed. It was the soft, low laughter she might have bestowed on the man she’d just bested at a game of tafl.

“Let’s go outside,” she said. “I’ve always been so fond of these rugs, I wouldn’t want to ruin them, not even in death.”

Disa stared at the scene unfolding before her, still tongue-tied. It had to be another of her dreams. She rose and followed, but they seemed to have forgotten about her. Mother and son had the same gait: proud, elegant to the point of haughty; and graceful, despite everything.

In the hof, the mistress knelt in front of the gods. “My Sigurd sacrificed here,” she said. “This is where I am closest to him. If I die here, I will be with him again in the next world. I will feast with him tonight.” She removed her coat and the veil in her hair. Her long neck, exposed by her elaborate coiffure, was white against the dark shadows and red firelight. “You’re an excellent swordsman, just like your father. It’ll be over in a heartbeat.”

Sigurd’s face was a mask, just like the first time Disa had met him. “Don’t worry, mother,“ he said, so calm, belying what the real Sigurd – deep inside – had to be feeling. The hand that held the sword was steady. “You, too, will be avenged.”

Now the mistress hesitated. Her eyes had been fixed on the gods, but now she turned her head to look at him. Her profile could have been carved out of ivory. “What do you mean?”

“You’re an Ylfing, mother. The daughter, sister, and mother of a jarl of Sunda. Your death can’t go unpunished; it would shame me. It would shame us all. Besides, I would have killed my own mother! When you are dead, I have arranged for my men to sacrifice me to the Spear-God, to the Lord of the Dead. There’s a noose and a spear already waiting for me. The warden tree will bear fruit tonight.”

The mistress bit her lip. 

Was it a ruse? Disa didn’t dare to look at Sigurd.

“The Ylfingar of Sunda will be no more,” Sigurd said. “The curse will be broken.”

The mistress stared at him. “My death will end it. Let it be by my own hand, without sullying yours.”

“Once Signy had made her brother and the son she’d had by him set fire to her husband’s hall with him and all his men inside, she stepped into the blaze herself, to pay for her betrayal. Once Sigrdrifa had made her brothers kill her beloved Sigurd, she went on the pyre with him. That is what you taught me.” Sigurd raised the sword.

Before he could swing it, Disa threw herself on the mistress. “No,” she said. “You can’t kill your own mother. I won’t let you!”

Was this a game, or wasn’t it? Sigurd’s blank face gave nothing away. He lowered the sword. “It’s none of your business. Go back to my chambers, and I’ll get this over and done with.”

The mistress, who’d been completely still, began to struggle against Disa’s hold. “Let go of me!” she cried. “You’re nothing, you’re a freed thrall! You have no knowledge, who are you to judge me? I choose to die! I’m prepared!”

Disa clung tighter. If this were a story, it would never end so abruptly. She had to make sure there was a proper ending. “You haven’t even told us why you killed her, or where her body is!”

The mistress pushed Disa onto the floor. They kept struggling, until the mistress grabbed Disa by the throat.

Perhaps, if it had lasted any longer, Sigurd would have overcome his respect for his mother and interfered. Instead, the door flew open and someone pulled the mistress away as easily as if she’d been a quarrelling child.

“Gudrun Ylfa,” Birsa said, her tone making the mistress’ name an insult, not so much Gudrun the Ylfing as Gudrun the she-wolf; Gudrun the murderous bitch. “You say you can’t be judged by a woman who isn’t much-knowing, but what about one who is? Will you challenge me, like you challenged your sister?”

Disa sat up, gasping for breath. Birsa stepped in between her and the mistress, who had already risen to her feet again. The mistress was tall, but Birsa was like the she-bear that was her namesake, both tall and broad. 

“What did you just call me, trollkona?” the mistress hissed, but she didn’t quite dare to get closer.

Before either of them could do something, Sigurd placed his sword on the stone with a loud clang. Both the mistress and Birsa turned towards him.

“Enough,” he said. “This is no way to behave in front of the gods.”

Birsa helped Disa stand. Sigurd stayed by his mother’s side.

The mistress was panting. Her face was flushed. “This is none of your business, hynda,” she said to Birsa. “Sigurd, tell her to leave.”

But Sigurd shook his head. “Not until she’s explained herself.” He turned to Birsa. “What do you mean by a challenge?”

“What does it matter?” The mistress said. “I’ve already told you I killed the girl. So kill me. Put an end to this ridiculous scene.”

“I need the truth, mother.”

“The truth is that I killed the girl. I cut off her head with my brother Sigurd’s sword.”

“With all due respect, mother, that doesn’t make sense. His sword was burned and buried with him. Over there,” he pointed in the direction of the island of the dead. “In his mound.”

The mistress smiled, but her mouth quivered. “I stole it from its scabbard the night before they lit the pyre. I kept it. I was meaning to give it to you, one day.”

Sigurd seemed to be struggling to maintain his facade. Something about her words had unsettled him. “Not here,” he said. “Let’s go back to my chambers.”

He put an arm around the mistress’ shoulders as they stepped out of the hof. Because he wanted to protect her, or because he was worried she might try to flee was anyone’s guess.

Inside, Biarni was waiting for them, standing around looking sheepish. “I’m sorry,” he told Sigurd. “We should go. We shouldn’t have come.”

Sigurd silenced him with a gesture of his hand. “Stay. Whatever my mother has to say concerns you, too. Your sister died because of this.”

He motioned for them all to sit down by the fire, then put away his sword before joining them.

“Now, mother,” he said. “I don’t really care for stories about my uncle’s sword. That’s for another time. Tell me about my sister. Why did you kill her? Plenty of men have children with their mistresses.”

But the mistress, sitting stiffly on the other side of the seat, didn’t seem to be listening.

“I killed her,” she said. “I will swear on it in front of witnesses. I’ll put my hands into a vat of boiling water. I’ll carry red-hot iron, anything—”

“No one’s asking you to do any of that, mother. I just want to know why. It’s a simple enough question.”

“Do I need a reason? She was the result of my slut of a half-sister seducing the man I loved more than myself. It pleased me to kill her.”

“In the name of the Lady, I demand you to tell me why!” When she didn’t reply, he paused, then tried again. This time, his tone was gentler. “I can’t kill you, and then myself, without knowing. How will I plead for a place in the High One’s hall if I don’t have that knowledge? How will I justify killing the one who gave me life?”

The mistress began to weep. It wasn’t the performative keening worthy of a finer funeral, or the loud sobbing that would have followed a skald’s retelling of some sad story about a long-dead hero. She seemed to crumple in front of their eyes, like a leaf curling in on itself as it burned.

Sigurd looked as shocked as everyone else. He hesitated for a moment, then pulled her close and hugged her.

She clung to him, burying her face against his shoulder as she wept. “Why won’t you just let me die?” she gasped. “Why won’t you spare me the humiliation? The half-Finn thinks she’s figured it all out. Let her tell you everything once I’m dead.”

“Mother, please,” Sigurd said. “Tell me in your own words. If not for me, then for Sigrid. How will people explain to her what happened?”

The mistress shook her head. She kept weeping. Sigurd held her, his face against her hair. He whispered things to her that Disa couldn’t hear.

Then the mistress sniffled. “Poor Sigrid,” she said, and wiped her nose.

“Poor Sigrid?” Sigurd asked. “Why?”

The mistress looked at him. She smiled. As she was still weeping, he leaned in to wipe away the new tears. She mirrored his gesture, laying her hand on his cheek. There was nothing motherly about the gesture; it looked like a woman about to kiss a man she loved.

“Because, unlike you, my darling, she was born a woman. She was born to lose.” She sniffled again and seemed to regain some of her composure. She edged away from Sigurd. “But for her sake, I’ll tell you. That hag Thora has probably already talked to you.”

“Thora said Gersemi’s mother was your sister.”

“Half-sister. Jorunn was father’s daughter with Saga, who was the vǫlva before her. Back then, it wasn’t unusual for the vǫlva to pay for a lord’s patronage like that.”

“And you were friends with Jorunn?”

“Friends? Yes, I suppose. My mother died not long after I was born, and my father had no time for me, not even when he happened to be at home and sober. There were hardly any women in his household, just poor old overworked Thora and a bunch of serving girls and thralls for him and his men to share between them.”

“But Jorunn—”

“The only one who cared for me was my dear Sigurd, my older brother. There was no one to bring me up properly, no one to tell me it was wrong to spend all my time with that arghola and her offspring.”

“Mother!” Sigurd said with a gasp.

“Jorunn betrayed me. She stole the destiny that should have been mine! Did Thora tell you as much? Jorunn became the vǫlva; she went travelling from hall to hall, being hailed as the embodiment of the Lady, learning all there was to know about the gods and the other worlds. And what did I get? I was sold at fifteen to a man who was beneath me, a man who didn’t have the wits to appreciate poetry and music and beautiful things, who was a failure as a warrior, and a coward. I had to endure him in bed, getting pregnant by him every year, and having most of my children die in the womb or as infants.” She was white with rage now.

“Mother…” Sigurd begged, but she wouldn’t be comforted.

“My powers weren’t strong enough to keep my children alive, or my husband from other women. The Lady had forsaken me, just as I forsook her when I agreed to marry that worthless man.”

“That’s not true,” Sigurd said. “Mother, to me – to everyone at Sunda – the Lady always wore your face. You did her work here.”

But she wasn’t listening. “Then, the year before you were born, my Sigurd married. We were all invited to the feast. I was so pleased about going back. Going home! Then Sigurd died. They said it was a hunting accident. I thought I would die too. I wanted to die! And Jorunn…”

“I’m so sorry,” Sigurd managed.

“Jorunn had taken my destiny, but she wasn’t happy with that. She wanted it all. She wanted my husband, too.” She sniffled. “Once he’d been made the jarl, she invited him to her hovel and seduced him again.” She clenched her hands, as if she wanted to hit something, preferably her dead sister.

Sigurd said nothing.

The mistress licked her lips. “Not long after Sigurd’s death, I found out I was pregnant again, and this time I knew the child would live.” She smiled at him, but the smile didn’t soften her features. She looked demented. “You were born here, at Sunda, unlike your brothers. I knew you’d be the jarl one day. I was overjoyed. For weeks after your birth, I felt like the world was a new and beautiful place.”

She touched his hair.

“And Gersemi?” Sigurd asked.

The mistress’ scowl returned. “Jorunn had to destroy everything, of course. I heard my women say she’d given the jarl a daughter. My joy turned to bitterness. I made my husband swear Jorunn and the girl would never set foot on Sunda. And they didn’t. But being a useless thing ruled by his cock, he kept going to Eagle Island to see her. I accepted it; at least he wasn’t getting my serving girls pregnant all the time. It was getting tiresome, you see, having to ensure they didn’t give birth to sons that might threaten my own one day.” 

Sigurd was about to ask something again, but she silenced him. “When you were old enough, I arranged for you to be sent to our Geatish kin, a refined place where you’d learn to be a real Ylfing. Then the Lady told me in a dream that you had to come back. So I sent for you. Then I learned that you were seeing her again.”

“Gersemi.”

“The arghola daughter of an arghola mother.”

“Don’t speak of her like that!”

“Why? Because she seduced you like her mother seduced your father and her grandmother seduced your grandfather?”

He faltered for a moment, looking at her as if he could barely understand what she was saying. “She was my sister,” he managed, at last. “We both knew that she was. What sort of a beast do you think I am? Or she, for that matter?”

They stared at each other.

“You didn’t…” The mistress staggered. “But what were you doing with her? What does a boy of that age do with a girl? What is there to interest him, beyond getting his cock wet?”

“We were brother and sister.” Sigurd’s voice was weighed down with tiredness, as if the discussion had been going on for much longer than it had. It seemed he was no longer able to summon up any shame at his mother’s obscene words. “We were best friends. She was the only one who understood me.”

The mistress began twisting one of her bracelets. “Boys and girls can’t be friends. Everyone knows that. And at that age… And she was so beautiful. So beautiful, Sigurd!”

“Of course she was, and I was so proud of her. She looked like a younger version of you. So even if she hadn’t been my sister – and my cousin, it appears – how could I possibly have desired her?”

“She didn’t seduce you? She didn’t tell you the stories of Sigmund and Signy and asked you to do what they did?”

“Why would she do something so sick?” He blinked a couple of times. “Was that why you killed her? Because you thought—“ His voice broke. “So it was all my fault, after all. Oh, gods! If I’d told you…”

The mistress reached for him, but he moved away.

“I went to see Jorunn,” she said. “I told her I’d seen you two together. I told her it had to stop. She didn’t want to interfere. She wanted her daughter in the hall, where she belonged. I thought… I thought she meant she hoped you’d take the girl as your mistress, that she hoped you and your brothers would fight over her and destroy each other, like stallions over a mare.”

“That’s not what any of us meant. I spoke with Jorunn and Gersemi. I told them that I thought they’d been mistreated, and that I was going to do right by them. I could do nothing while you were still the jarl’s wife, but I would make sure Eirik would give Gersemi what she was due once he became the jarl. Gersemi was a jarl’s daughter by his longstanding mistress; she had a right to her inheritance. That’s what the law says.”

“I challenged her.”

“Who? Jorunn?”

“To a battle. We each cursed the other; we sang the most powerful galdrar we knew at each other. This was in late spring, just after you’d left with your father and your brothers. By midsummer, Jorunn was dead. She drowned. So I figured I’d won. But I hadn’t. Once again, Jorunn had turned out to be the lucky one. That autumn, my golden-haired Eirik died in my arms. Then my beautiful Hakon. Do you remember your brothers, Sigurd?”

But he was just staring at her, looking as if he was about to faint.

She seemed calmer now. There were no more tears. “And the following summer, the jarl was wounded in battle. He died here at Sunda, in his bed like the weakling he was. I worried you’d be next.” Again she reached for Sigurd, and again he moved away. “I couldn’t have that. I was by no means a young woman, but I still had more beauty than most women ever have, so I chose myself a husband among the men who’d come to court me. He took me far away, and I was pleased. I didn’t even care I’d lost Sunda all over again. I’d saved you, I’d saved the true heir of Sunda, and that was what mattered.”

“And Gersemi?”

“Oh, that.” The mistress went to stand by the tapestry depicting the greatness of the Volsungar. As she spoke again, there was none of the urgency of before. “I hadn’t seen her for so long. And neither had you. Then I saw you sneak back from Eagle Island the night before you left with your men for England. Sneaking back, Sigurd!” she said, and the anger returned. “Like my worthless husband! What was I meant to think?” She closed her eyes and calmed herself again. “So I paid her a visit, just as I had her mother.”

“What happened?”

“She gloated. She said once I was gone, there’d be no one to stop her from seeing you and coming to live with you. She laughed at me. And then we argued, and she fell, hitting her head on the flagstones of the hearth. You know how delicately built she was. I tried to revive her, but she was dead. I was horrified. The thought of someone finding her, of the story coming out and my family becoming the source of gossip… No, I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t have everyone know what shameful things my son had done with his own sister…”

She fell silent. It was long before she spoke again. “That night, I went back. I told my servants I would sit outside and gain wisdom. I didn’t take my staff, but Sigurd’s sword. I cut off the girl’s head so she wouldn’t return, then I dug a grave, buried her, and piled stones on top. I sang a strong galdr that would make sure no one would look for her there. I did it for you, Sigurd! To preserve your good name. To salvage your honour. A woman can take a little shame, but a warrior is nothing without his honour—”

“Where is she?”

“The rubble under the cliff. Just behind the cottage.”

He laughed, but he might as well have wept. “And now she’s free. She’s wronged and she’s powerful. No wonder we’ve had such a miserable autumn!”

“She can’t be!”

“There’s been a rockfall, some sort of landslide. It must have disturbed her grave.”

“You… You saw it?”

“I went to the cottage, remember?”

“She has to be put down. She’s unliving. There’s no place for her in this world.”

“Is that all? Then why the brides? Why did eight innocent girls have to die?”

“I don’t know.“ This time, she didn’t even try to get closer to him. “It was what I was told. I don’t question what comes to me during the seið. I had no other clue, so when one girl died, I had to keep trying. What does it matter? They were of no consequence—”

“Hrafnhild was my sister!” Birsa cried, making the mistress stare at her as if she’d forgotten that she and Sigurd weren’t alone. “All the others were someone’s sister. Someone’s daughter. Does that mean nothing to you?”

But to the mistress, no one who was below her rank would ever matter.

“All those families will need justice for their daughters,” Sigurd said, his shoulders hunching. “Not just them, but everyone who’s lost someone because of the curse. There will have to be a Thing to settle matters.”

The mistress flinched. “You would have me tell what I just told you to everyone?”

“I don’t know yet. All I know is that I must go to Eagle Island tomorrow, at first light.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary
> 
> Aldeigjuborg - Staraya Ladoga, Russia.
> 
> Miklagard - Constantinople (nowadays Istanbul, Turkey). Miklagard more or less means "the big city", which is what it was to everyone who lived in the surrounding areas.
> 
> Sigmund, Signy, Sigrdrifa - Characters in the tales of the Volsungar (later written down as Völsunga saga), the Norse version of the German Nibelungenlied.
> 
> Valkyrja - chooser of the slain, shieldmaiden loyal to Óðinn, who brought dead warriors to his hall, valhǫll. 
> 
> Vat of boiling water, etc. - Trial by ordeal.
> 
> Arghola - A sexually deviant/"perverse" woman. One who had an enormous sexual appetite not restrained by such things as marriage- or blood ties).
> 
> Thing (þing) - a governing assembly in early Germanic society, made up of the free men and presided over by lawspeakers/lawmen.
> 
> There's a companion post [here](https://ceceril.dreamwidth.org/12747.html) if you want to read my thoughts on this chapter.


	23. In from the Cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: incestuous vibes, some violence, offensive language and references to rape.
> 
> There's a glossary and a link to a companion post in the end notes.

***

Sigurd didn’t speak again until the others had gone and he and Disa were in bed together.

“I was going to kill her,” he said. He was turned away, and Disa couldn’t see his expression, but his voice was dull. “I was going to kill my own mother. I would have, if you hadn’t been there.”

It took a moment for the words to sink in. “I thought it was all a trick,” she managed. “That you knew she’d never let you kill yourself.”

“Why would I lie about something like that?”

At last, everything made sense. “That’s why… And I thought you did everything you did today – selecting the things for your pyre, taking leave of your people – because you expected to be killed. But not…” The idea of his intended sacrifice was obscene. It should make her pity him, but it only infuriated her. “To kill your mother. To kill yourself. What would that have solved?”

“You wouldn’t understand. How could you?” She could almost hear the mask slip into place as his voice turned hard.

Disa gnawed on her lower lip, holding back further angry words. The only thing she could do was not to make things worse. Then another thought occurred to her.

“And you said… You called me your Dís of death. You would have involved me, too. Or perhaps you thought I was involved. But I’m not. I’m a woman of flesh and blood.”

She heard him shift, and she wondered whether he was embarrassed. She knew she shouldn’t have spoken at all.

“I thought sacrificing myself would end things,” Sigurd replied, surprising her. “I told you: the ruler is responsible for his lands. And I brought this plague upon us, so I thought that if nothing else helped, I would offer myself to the Spear-God, to give myself like he gave himself. Besides, I would have killed my mother, so just throwing myself on my sword wouldn’t have been enough.”

Disa remembered fragments of the words from the poem about the Spear-God’s own self-sacrifice. “ _On a windy tree_ ,” she quoted. “ _Wounded by a spear_. Was that what you wanted your men to do to you? Stick a spear in you as you hung strangling from the warden tree?” She wanted to shake him. “Have you seen men hang? There’s no honour in that! They piss and shit themselves and their eyes pop out of their sockets and the tongue swells and pokes out. It’s horrible!”

“Of course I’ve seen men hang. I’ve strung up a few myself.”

Disa clawed at the covers, needing to get out. She sat up.

Sigurd did, too. He turned towards her without touching her. “Forgive me. I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. I’m glad you stepped in. I’m glad I’m here, with you, and not hanging from the warden tree with poor Biarni’s spear in my belly. And though I’m not sure you are, I’m glad my mother’s still alive. I don’t relish the idea of bringing charges against her at a Thing, but…”

Disa sighed. She hadn’t guessed that Biarni had known about the plan, although it explained his anger earlier. “I’m sorry I spoke so harshly.”

“Don’t be. I shouldn’t need to be coddled. Someone has to tell me the truth, not just what they think I want to hear.”

Disa didn’t think there was a man anywhere – at least not a powerful one – who didn’t expect to be even a little bit coddled, but she didn’t argue. And since she didn’t have it in her to be pleasant right now, she took him at his word. 

“Biarni would have done what you’d told him to do, but don’t you think it would have haunted him always? He cares so much for you. And I…” Her courage failed her. She couldn’t ask him what he’d thought she would make of it all. She hadn’t even asked herself that. She scrambled for words, then settled on another matter that had bothered her. “You gave me to him. I heard you.”

“I might still die tomorrow,“ he said, far too casual for her liking. “Or in the days after that, once Rognvald gets here.”

“And then Biarni would inherit me?”

“He’s the best of men,” Sigurd said, seemingly deaf to the anger in her tone. “He wouldn’t be away all summer, but as for the rest of it… Once he’d found another master – and they’ll be fighting over him, believe me – you’d have everything you wished for when you asked my mother to take you instead of her husband’s nieces. You’d be happy.”

She plucked at her plait, then threw it back over her shoulder. It hit the headboard with an unexpectedly loud thud. “How do you know what would make me happy?”

“I only know what you told me. And Biarni’s handsome, isn’t he? And though he’s as strong as two men, he’s always gentle with small, helpless things. He’s kind. He’d know how to… I mean…” He cleared his throat. “How to be a good husband to you in every way.”

His words went deep, like a dagger. She lost control over her face, grimacing as she tried to hold back all of her different emotions. She clenched her fist, feeling her nails dig into the flesh of her palms.

“Small and helpless,” she whispered, knowing she’d scream if she didn’t try to keep it down. “Is that how you see me? After everything I’ve done, everything I’ve survived?”

“I’ve clearly said the wrong thing again,” he said, his brow furrowing.

“I’m not small, or helpless.”

“I didn’t say you were, my Dís.”

“You did!”

“But I didn’t. I merely—”

“No. Don’t say more.” She stared up at him, holding his gaze.

This time he only shook his head and gave up trying to engage her. He turned away from her, looking straight ahead. His profile, so neatly chiselled, looked too much like his mother’s.

“You should’ve married Birsa,” Disa said, when at last it became evident he wouldn’t speak. His silence, it turned out, was more infuriating. She had a perverse urge to make things worse; to prod and poke until he put up a fight again.

“Why would I do that?” he said tiredly.

“She should have been your ninth bride. Or perhaps the first. Yes, the first, that way eight girls wouldn’t have died. It was said that a bride would save you. But I haven’t. She did.”

“What’s done is done, however awful. What use is regret?”

“So you regret marrying me?”

“Sounds to me like you’re the one with regrets. But for what it’s worth, I doubt Birsa wants to marry me any more than I want to marry her. We grew up together.”

“She’d make a good mistress, though. Once all this is over. I’m just a merchant’s daughter. I don’t even know how to cook, and I couldn’t brew ale if my life depended on it. We always just bought everything. I’d only be of use to you on market days. I’m good at bartering, and I’m good at weaving.”

He said something under his breath, like a curse, but she didn’t quite catch it. His mouth was set in a tight line.

“But of course,” Disa continued, warming to her subject. “I suppose once I’ve saved you and you’d handed me off to Biarni, you should really marry a high-born maiden. You could even marry a daughter of that Rognvald fellow to make sure he doesn’t challenge you again.”

“Rognvald,” Sigurd said, his voice as cold as the air around them, “only has sons. That’s why he’s so greedy for land, to satisfy them all. The poor wretch doesn’t even have a bastard daughter to bargain with.”

“Well, isn’t that sad.”

“Yes, very. Nothing would delight me more than having to bed some girl with Rognvald’s pig-like snout and huge ears.”

“I’m sure there are other men who’d gladly give their pretty daughters to a jarl.”

“If I survive. Not that it will matter to you, as you’ll no doubt be married already to your perfect husband who’s never at home. If Biarni isn’t good enough for you, I’ll be pleased to have all my men – warriors, dependants, servants, anyone – lined up so you can pick the most handsome, the way the gods did to let the goddess Skaði choose her man.”

His words hurt, but he was right. It was only in the tales that the girl who saved the king ended up with him. Besides, Shirazad had been the vizier’s daughter and as Persian as her king. Not a foreigner of uncertain parentage, and certainly not a former thrall. 

This was only the eighth night she’d spent with Sigurd, but it felt like they’d aged years together. It was so long since she’d thought about having to marry another man: someone who would demand more from her than just stories and interesting conversation. It made her stomach knot.

He noticed the change in her. He made a sound, somewhere between a grunt and a sigh. “I’m sorry. I asked your forgiveness, and then I kept at it. I don’t know why it’s so much easier to say the things that pass through my head when I’m angry than the things I should say to you, now that our time together is running out.”

She reached for him. Their fingers touched, just the tips. “I was the one who riled you up.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I don’t want to spend our last night together arguing,“ she said. “But I feel as if my thoughts are tying themselves into knots. I feel as if I’m in a nightmare I can never wake up from.” She let her fingers slip between his.

“I know.” He rubbed his thumb along the side of her hand. “That’s how these last few months have been. Except it’s been much better since you came. You’ve been nothing but kind to me, and here I am repaying you by behaving like a lout. Let me make amends.”

His touch soothed her. Her anger was gone, and she should find it irritating that he could pacify her so quickly, but instead she felt almost placid, like a cat being petted. “Then tell me a story. It’ll be like old times.”

“The good old days when you thought I’d kill you?”

“I wasn’t sure what you’d do. I only knew what _I_ had to do.”

“How do you mean?” He tilted his head.

“When I heard Hallfrid tell me about your curse, I thought I was meant to come here. I’d heard the tale before, from my mother.”

“She was a vǫlva?”

The thought of what he might have made of her mother – or, better still, she of him – made her smile. “No, she didn’t believe in such things. But she told me a story when I was a girl, and it was so similar to what I’d heard about you it made me think I could save you.”

Now she had his undivided attention. He edged in closer, until her shoulder was pressed into his arm. He twined his fingers tighter with hers. “Tell me.”

So she told him Shirazad’s own tale: how the clever girl made sure she was always in the middle of a story when dawn came, so that the king had to keep her alive. And how, once one thousand and one nights had passed, the king was so pleased with her he decided to keep her alive and make her his queen.

Sigurd seemed taken with it. “Uncanny,” he said. 

“Now you tell me something in exchange,” Disa said. She’d pulled their joined hands into her lap and was tracing their knuckles with the index finger of her other hand. His fingers were quite different from hers: much longer, and more bone than flesh.

“What do you want to hear?”

She looked up at his face. “Something nice.”

He pursed his lips in thought. “Have you heard the story of Helgi Hjorvard’s son and the shieldmaiden Svava?”

“I don’t think so.” 

He looked at her closely, his amber eyes narrowing. “How’s that possible?”

“Should I have?”

“Of course you should have! But it doesn’t matter. You’ll hear it now, and then you’ll never forget it. It’s one of my favourites.” He sat up straighter, reached for the cup of water that stood on the chest by the bed, and drank. He offered her some, then he took her hand again and began his tale.

He told her of a king’s son: a hopeless youth of fifteen who was mute, and had been denied a name by his father. Then he met a wise shieldmaiden – a great warrior and one of the Spear-God’s Valkyrjur – who saw something in him that no one else had. She gave him the name Helgi, a voice, and the promise of a mighty sword. The first thing Helgi did with his new voice was to ask the shieldmaiden – Svava – for her love, and she eventually made him both a man and a great warrior. She saved his life in many battles. They married, but in the end they were betrayed by Helgi’s own brother, and Helgi died in Svava’s arms.

Sigurd abandoned the carefully modulated tone of the skald and ended in a private voice, so hushed she had to lean closer, her head ending up pillowed uncomfortably against his bony shoulder. “But a love like theirs can’t die. Not even death is enough to quench it. They were reborn as Helgi Hundingsbane, the forefather of all Ylfingar, and the shieldmaiden Sigrun. And then they died and returned as warriors yet again: Helgi Haddingjaskati and Kara, Halfdan’s daughter. I don’t know if they were reborn a third time. I suppose I hope they were finally free to leave. To spend eternity together in the Lady’s own hall, where there’s nothing but pleasure.”

Then he was quiet. They both were. She traced the sword calluses in his palm with her thumb.

“So,” Sigurd asked. He turned slightly, as if he were smelling her hair, or about to nuzzle the top of her head. “Did you like it?” He didn’t sound too worried.

“You know you’re good. There’s no need to ask.”

“Perhaps I just want to hear you say it.”

“It was nicely told. But I was cheated.”

“Cheated?” He managed to put all his hurt pride in that one word. “How?” 

“You gave me less than half a tale. You didn’t tell me the stories of when they returned.”

She felt him relax. “Oh, you mean like that,” he said. “It will have to be next time. One never tells them all at once.”

There was an eerie little pause. They both knew there wouldn’t be a next time. They might die tomorrow, and if they didn’t, they’d still end up marrying others. Disa didn’t want to think about it. Right now, she wanted there to be a next time, and a time after that. Nights when they might talk without worrying about the future. She would like that.

“Then I’ll tell you the stories Shirazad told the king,” she said.

“Careful,” he replied, putting his arm around her shoulders. It made her feel as if she were still a girl in Aldeigjuborg, alone with a boy in some corner of her father’s store. Her heart beat faster in her chest and she was acutely aware of how thin her shift was. “If you do, I have to keep _you_ for one thousand and one nights, just to hear every last one of them. And then—” 

But she never learned what he was meaning to say. There had been silence outside the window all evening, but now they heard the scratching again.

“Gersemi,” Sigurd said, instantly alert. When the scratching continued he added, “What would happen if I opened the window now? If I could talk to her when I’m awake and in control of myself?”

Reluctantly, she slipped out of his grasp and settled opposite him, so she could look at him. He was serious. How could an intelligent man be so stupid? “She’s unliving,” she said. “I doubt you’d be able to argue with her.”

“How will I know that without trying? Mother said she killed Gersemi by accident. I know that the fact that she didn’t immediately report it makes it murder, but if if was manslaughter to begin with… I should ask Gersemi what happened. Then I’d know. At least let me try.” He meant what he was saying, as if he really thought that something unliving, something that had killed several people, could be argued with. 

She didn’t have the heart to try and talk him out of it, because there was something so painfully naive about his assumption. He’d loved his sister. He couldn’t accept that there was nothing left of her now; that she wasn’t what she’d once been, not even a little.

“Only if you let me stay,” she said.

*

She hid under the covers, peeping out to watch him climb the ladder. He hadn’t even opened the window when a gust of wind blew out the lamps.

“Sigurd please.” It was the voice from Disa’s dreams. “Won’t you let me in, brother? I’m so cold.”

Sigurd’s voice trembled as he replied, “How will I know you won’t harm me if I do?”

There was a laugh. “You’re afraid that I might harm you? You’re the one who killed me.”

“I did not—”

“Your mother did.”

He unbolted the window. A shadow appeared against the night sky and slipped inside, filling the room with cold air. Now the fire in the hearth went out and there was only the reflected moonlight from the snow. After a few moments, Disa could make out the tall, thin shape of Sigurd on the floor. And next to him, another. A girl.

The girl moved, and Sigurd followed until they stood in the square of light entering through the window. The girl’s hair fell loose about her, so pale it was like silver. Her face was paler still and the line that marked where her head had once been severed from her body was red.

She was the most beautiful thing Disa had ever seen: tall and lissome, with the huge eyes of something otherworldly. The resemblance to Sigurd, Sigrid, and the mistress was obvious.

“I’m so cold.” The girl licked her mouth. “Why won’t you hold me, Sigurd? Why won’t you warm me?” She held out her arms. Her nails were like talons. Her shift was stained with blood and earth. Even from where Disa lay, the dank stench of corruption, of stagnant water and heavy clay soil, was evident.

Sigurd took a step towards her, then a step away. He swayed slightly, as if he were about to fall. “Gersemi…” His voice was hoarse. “You know I can’t trust you.”

“You promised me I would come and live in the hall when you were the jarl, but you didn’t keep your promise. Instead you let your women hurt me. First your mother, then your brides.”

“How do the brides hurt you, Gersemi? What can they possibly do to you?”

“They take my place. The place that should have been mine.” 

“But I would have married even if you’d come to live with me.” He sighed. “Gersemi, sister mine, blood of my blood. You knew this when you were alive. Why don’t you understand it now?” His voice was a lovely, beckoning darkness that made you go still and listen. The rhythm of the words was so strangely soothing, it made you want to do anything for him.

But the girl laughed. “Your tricks won’t work on me, brother. We were taught together, don’t you remember? Golden-haired children, scattered sunlight between tall trees; soft plants sucking wisdom through dark roots…” Her voice was sweeter still as she whispered the words, making Disa shiver with a strange pleasure. “I want us to be together. I want us to be together always. I call for you in the night, but you don’t hear me.”

Sigurd stepped closer again. This time he stepped into her arms, as if the smell didn’t bother him. “I do hear you. I hear you all the time, but no one else does. It’s driving me insane.”

The taloned fingers caressed his hair; the hair Disa had combed and touched and felt against her face as she held him.

“I shouldn’t forgive you,“ the girl said. “You’re faithless. There’s always a new bride in your bed.” She sniffed the air, like a beast would. She sniffed at her brother. Whatever she smelled made her moan. “Is there a bride in your bed now, brother? I heard the sound of feasting some nights ago, and I can smell a woman’s lust on you.” Her fingers trailed his neck, stopping at the purple mark below his ear. “She has marked you! Did you marry a camp follower this time, brother? A slut?”

“I—”

The girl’s voice turned sweet again. “I want to see her. I want to meet my new sister and ask her for a gift. They say the silver that adorns a bride brings luck. Surely she’s got rings and bracelets enough? Or a necklace, perhaps? Shall I search her pretty little neck for lovely things?”

Disa willed her breathing to slow down and not betray her.

“There’s nothing here for you, Gersemi,” Sigurd said.

“Let me kiss her. Let me put my arms around her neck and taste her red mouth. You’ve kissed her, haven’t you? How could you deny me the same? Or are you still moping because I didn’t share Biarni when I took him to my bed? He’s strong, you know. He could have handled us both, unlike your randy little vergjǫrn of a bed-thrall.”

The words, as horrible as the smell of death and pollution, made Disa cower. She searched her mind for fragments of prayers in the language even her mother had known less well than she knew Arabic. 

_Lord of Wisdom,_ she prayed, imagining that her hands were outstretched, that she was looking towards the sun. _Sole ruler! Strike down and defeat this abomination. Come to my aid!_

She felt the air get colder and the smell of damp earth and mould get stronger. She closed her eyes, feeling the covers shift as someone rifled through the bed. Then cold hands found her, fumbling at her throat. Before the creature could strangle her, she heard Sigurd’s voice again.

“Don’t. Gersemi, don’t touch her.”

The hand slipped away from Disa’s skin, but the feeling of having been touched remained, defiling her.

“What’s so different about this one? You always give in. You always let me have my way with them in the end.” 

“I don’t remember that. I never remember anything.”

“That’s always been your gift, Sigurd. You remember what you want to remember, and the rest you lock away somewhere inside you. What will you do once that place gets too full?”

“I—” Even in that thwarted sound, Disa could hear him close himself off.

The creature sniffed again, then laughed. “This one’s not a virgin, brother. And it’s not your doing. You wouldn’t even be the second man to have her, or the third. You’d be the… Tell me, how many men are there in a ship’s crew?”

The words were worse than the hands, more disgusting than being soaked in the dead man’s blood.

Sigurd was silent. When he spoke, she could hear from how slowly he was speaking that he was fighting to stay in control. “What have you become, Gersemi? It pains me to say so, but it seems to me the ones calling you a monster were right. My sister would never have said such things; her mother raised her better than that.”

“You love her, then? You don’t love me anymore?” 

“The way a man loves his wife is different from the way he loves his sister.” Sigurd’s voice was deeper again. 

“We’re Ylfingar, and what are Ylfingar if not Volsungar? What did shared blood matter to them? Didn’t Signy bed her brother Sigmund to get a son who was a Volsung through and through? One who’d feel no pain and know no fear? What wrong is there in doing something that’s our birthright? Something that others have done before us?”

“It’s not something for us to admire, or aspire to. It just makes for a better story because it’s shocking.”

Disa dared to open her eyes, now that it seemed she was no longer important. Even in the poor light, she could see that Sigurd was almost as pale as his unliving sister. But his back was straight and his face still.

“You wanted me once. Do you remember, Sigurd? We wrestled, like we did when we were little, and then you stopped. You pushed me off and ran away, red-faced. But I felt it—”

“I was fifteen. My body—” His mask failed him. His voice broke. “I was fifteen and my body had a will of its own. It had nothing to do with you. It would have happened with anyone.”

The creature that was and wasn’t Gersemi laughed again.

“Why do you laugh?” Sigurd asked. “Why do you laugh! If I hadn’t come home looking guilty, my mother… My mother would never have done what she did. No one would have died!”

“Oh, you poor little boy! You really think your unruly cock is so important in the grander scheme of things? You think your mother wouldn’t have found a way to destroy me regardless of that?”

Even his silence was mortified.

“You were never stupid,” she said. “So why do you refuse to see?”

“What am I meant to see?”

“What does your mother refuse to say out loud, but can’t stop hinting at? What is she so proud – and so ashamed – of, she’d rather die than have you find out?”

“What do you mean? I don’t understand! You’re speaking in riddles!”

She was quiet, as if she waited for him to grasp. And when he didn’t, they were back where they began. “I’m so cold, Sigurd,” she whined. “Let’s not speak. Hold me. Make me warm again.”

He gave in. He put his arms around her.

“Tighter,” Gersemi said. “Hold me tighter.”

Her hand had been on his hair, but now it was high on his chest, just below his neck.

“We’ll be together again,” she said. She grabbed his hair and pulled him down, kissing him on the mouth just as her other hand closed around his throat.

He didn’t fight her at first, and when he did, it turned out she was much stronger than she looked. She would kill him, she would have him in death if she couldn’t have him in life.

Disa climbed out from under the covers. There was no time to be afraid or disgusted, only to act. She grabbed Gersemi’s hair and tugged. There was a wet sound, like membranes unsticking when you gutted fish. The head hit the floor, the sound of the impact muted by the rugs. Disa saw the eyes glitter as they blinked. The lips moved, but without lungs there was no sound, no more filthy words.

She kicked it, made it roll over so she didn’t have to see the eyes, only the tangle of hair. There was not much blood. Still, the thought of touching it made Disa’s skin crawl. She had to take a deep breath, then cover her fingers with her sleeves to pick it up. She gathered her skirts and carried it like she might have carried freshly picked fruit. It was heavier than she’d expected.

The body was still to fall. The noise Disa heard as she began to move, hurrying up the ladder to the window, was Sigurd hitting the floor after Gersemi let go of him. Disa was all the way up before something followed her.

What touched her ankles like an icy draught wasn’t the headless shape she’d glimpsed in the darkness, but something that wasn’t quite solid. She reached the window and with a groan she hefted the head and hurled it outside. It bounced against the slanting roof, disappearing into the swirling snow. Something passed her, following the head. It made her shudder all over. She shut the window and bolted it.

When she climbed down, Sigurd was still on the floor, gasping. She reached for him.

“Are you all right?”

He nodded, but didn’t speak.

She began to help him up, and now he coughed. 

“Fire.” His voice was raspy.

“I don’t have flint or steel.” She was reluctant to leave his chambers. They were safe here. She didn’t want to risk anything.

He shook off her arms and went to the fireplace. She saw him crouch, and heard him poke through the embers. At first there was only a glow, then flames licking the smaller branches. Soon it was as though the fire had never died in the first place. She didn’t ask how he got it going again so quickly. She only fetched one by one of the lamps and he used a stick to light them all.

There was no food, only mead, which they drank in bed. She took hers undiluted, and it made her sleepy, but at least it calmed her. 

“We need to sleep,” she said. “We have to be level-headed tomorrow. She will know we’re there to destroy her, won’t she?”

He refused to reply at first, then he nodded. But he wouldn’t lie down. His eyes were fixed on her. 

“What?” she asked.

He cleared his throat. It didn’t help. He settled on touching her plait, running his fingers along it. She knew immediately what he wanted.

She felt a wave of embarrassment engulf her. But of course, she’d seen him at his most vulnerable. What he was asking for was nothing compared to that. 

She untied the plait, then let him dig his fingers into it to undo it. She felt as if it were she that was being unravelled as she watched her hair ripple, becoming black wool, rather than a rope. The tight plaits needed for a married woman’s coiffure had made it wavy, rather than curly. It was still wild and thick, framing her entire body in darkness by the time he was done.

Sigurd curled a lock around his finger, then let it go. He slowly drew the fingers of both hands through the mass of black, as if combing it.

“Your mother said it made me troll-like,” Disa said.

He blinked and tore his gaze from her hair to look into her eyes. He shook his head emphatically.

“You’ve seen a troll, have you?” She couldn’t help but smile.

His expression softened, but he didn’t quite return the smile. He shrugged. _Maybe_. Then he held up his hand at a height somewhere above her head.

“They’re bigger,” she translated, making him nod.

She shook her head. “Silly.” 

She lay down and he joined her. They lay on their sides, with her head tucked under his chin and her breath against his throat, where Gersemi had tried to strangle him. One of her arms was squished between them, the other lay around him, like one of his lay around her, cupping the small of her back. He’d had to curl his other arm above her head. It had to be as uncomfortable for him as it was for her, but she didn’t want to move.

How strange to think that this was their last night together, that she would lie with another man soon. She didn’t want to think about it. She didn’t want to think about anything past this very moment. She wanted to drift into sleep in his arms and pretend there was no past and no future. No memories of the warriors who’d taken her away, and no morning when they’d have to destroy Gersemi.

She didn’t want to think of tomorrow, of the endless row of tomorrows when he’d rest and heal and be consumed with guilt for the dead brides, his sister, and his mother. 

Not so long ago, she’d have laughed at the idea of pitying a man like him, but it was different now. She knew that given half a chance, he’d always blame himself. And soon he’d marry someone who didn’t know, some high-born child fresh from her nurse’s care, who wouldn’t be able to do a thing for him, because she wouldn’t understand what he’d been through. And all the while she herself would be busy with her own farm and her own man, having abandoned him when he might still be in need of her.

The inside of her throat and nose felt thick and wet, as if she were crying without shedding any outward tears. She swallowed a little too loudly, and he noticed.

He moved, shifting so he could see her. He cupped her face in his hand. She looked away; she couldn’t bear for him to pity her. She rubbed her nose with the back of her hand.

But he had no words to offer her. He propped himself up against the pillows and when he looked at her again, she understood. She straddled his lap and hugged him tightly, as if she might fall if she didn’t. He held her and stroked her hair, which still lay unbound in a cloak over her back, as she buried her face against him.

Would he remember her at all after this, or would he want to forget? Would she? 

“You’re thinking too loudly again,” he whispered, his voice so hoarse it must hurt him to speak. He kissed the top of her head. “Don’t. Just sleep.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary
> 
> Dís of Death - In Old Norse poetry, the death of lords and kings is sometimes described in erotically charged terms as being welcomed by a beautiful death goddess/valkyrie into the pleasures of the other world.
> 
> Spear-God's sacrifice - In order to gain wisdom and learn secret runes, the god Óðinn hung for nine nights from the branches of the world tree Yggdrasil, wounded with a spear. It has been speculated that it might represent a sort of shamanic initiation rite. It could also be a blue-print for how to perform sacrifices to Óðinn (both human and animal sacrifices tend to have been hung or killed with spears).
> 
> Hanging - Old Norse hanging wasn't done by long drop. Victims seem to have been tied up and left to strangle to death, rather than to die from a broken neck from the fall.
> 
> Skaði - Goddess of winter, mountains, hunting and skiing. After her father Þjazi was killed by the gods, Skaði demanded compensation. The gods decided to let her choose a husband from among themselves. However, she could only look at their feet. She chose the prettiest feet, thinking she'd chosen the beautiful god Baldr, but instead ended up with the crusty sea-god Njörðr. The marriage was unhaoppy. 
> 
> Vergjǫrn - A sexually deviant woman, similar to arghola.
> 
> Lord of Wisdom - Ahura Mazda, the highest god of Zoroastrianism, the state religion of the ancient Iranian empires. Zoroastrianism declined after the Muslim conquest of Persia in the 7th century and onwards, but survived in some areas despite persecution.
> 
> There's a companion post [here](https://ceceril.dreamwidth.org/12920.html) if you want to read my thoughts on this chapter. This week's is very brief, as I didn't want to add spoilers for the last chapters.


	24. Secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Mentions of incest, traumatic flashback/trigger (rape).
> 
> There's a glossary and a link to a companion post in the end notes.

***

She was in Aldeigjuborg. She was standing in the harbour, watching a ship making its way towards her along the busy river. It was late summer, and the heat that should be giving way to the crispness of autumn showed no sign of abating. The fields on the other bank were yellow by now, and there was hardly any wind.

Disa was sweating inside her gown as she waited, and she was growing impatient. It seemed like ages before she could make out the people onboard the ship. A strongly built man stood on the prow, his tawny mane of hair a little faded at the temples. Next to him was an elegant woman, lavishly decked out in her silks and furs, even when travelling, even in summer. They waved at her. 

She couldn’t hold back her excitement and began to jump up and down, making her thick plaits bounce and her jewels and amulets rattle. “I’m here,” she cried, and her voice was still a girl’s voice. “Mother, Father, I’m here!”

“Disa.”

It was a man’s voice, but it wasn’t her father’s. It had come from behind her. She turned around. There was the usual crowd of people on the docks – people working, loitering, waiting – but she couldn’t identify the one who’d spoken to her. Unnerved, she turned towards the river again, shading her eyes against the glare of sunlight reflecting back on her from the water, as if from a great mirror.

“Disa.”

Again, the man’s voice. Again, she turned, and this time she saw him: a tall, gaunt lord with yellow eyes and foreign clothes. He looked serious to the point of stern as he held out a bony hand to her. She didn’t want to take it; she had a feeling he was coming to take her away before her parents could reach her. The ship was closer now and she could hear her mother calling for her. It had been so long since she’d seen her parents, though she couldn’t quite remember why. There was no way she would let the stranger get to her before she could be reunited with them.

He took a step towards her and she took a step back. There was only water behind her now; she was standing at the edge. The man frowned. She was going to jump, despite not knowing how to swim, when he grabbed her hand. His touch made everything begin to dissolve around her. She turned, hoping to catch a last glimpse of the ship with her parents, but there was nothing there, not even the river.

He said her name again and the last remnants of the dream vanished, and with it the fierce sunlight of the hot Gardariki summer. She was left stranded in the waking world. It was dark, but not cold. Her face was still pressed warm and slightly damp against Sigurd’s neck. His arms were still around her.

“It’ll be dawn soon,” he said as she sat up in his lap and opened her sticky eyes to look at him. He sounded as hoarse as she did, and she could make out the marks on his neck where Gersemi had tried to strangle him. “We need to go.”

*

The boat was already waiting for them by the shore, dark against the snow on the ground and in the air. Biarni was there, as was Birsa. Of Sigurd’s men, only Eyvindr the steward and the warrior Thiostolf had joined them. Birsa was busy packing things into the boat: a sooty bag, a pile of firewood, and a bundle of things in a cloth. 

Sigurd turned to Thiostolf. “I should be back, but if I’m not, you’ll have to deal with Rognvald and make sure the men behave.”

Thiostolf said nothing for a moment, as if the words needed to sink in. Disa, who had been about to join Birsa, lingered, observing.

“I’m not going with you?” Thiostolf’s hands had been in his belt, but now he removed one of his gloves and began to scratch the back of his head under the thick, fur-lined cap. “I don’t understand. I always go with you. You’ve never seen battle without me at your side.” His voice dwindled as he spoke. He sounded like a scorned boy.

“And I hope I never will. But this isn’t battle. It’s something else.” Sigurd sounded more patient than he needed to be, considering everything he’d been through and what he would likely be through before all this was over.

“You’ll be in danger.”

“I’m bringing Biarni and Eyvindr.”

“I’m not good enough?” Thiostolf’s voice sounded as if it might break. “Have I not always been faithful? Have I not saved your life countless times?”

Disa heard Sigurd swallow. She could almost feel his pity, his extreme unease at disappointing anyone he cared about. A good thing in a friend, but not necessarily in a leader. “You are good enough. You are the best of my warriors, but warriors won’t help me in this. So I need you to stay here and keep the men calm. They look up to you. They admire you. If I don’t return, you have to take care of them.”

There must have been some meaning in the words that she didn’t catch, or some bond she didn’t understand, because the words only made Thiostolf more unhappy.

“Then I will stay,” he said. “And I will sacrifice for your safe return.”

Then, just as Sigurd was leaving, Thiostolf reached for him, grabbing his shoulder. Sigurd turned, and they joined in a hug. Disa saw Sigurd’s lips move, but she didn’t hear the words. Then he peeled himself away. 

“Tell my mother to wait for me and not do anything rash,” he said out loud.

Disa doubted anyone would dare to leave such a message to the mistress, but she didn’t dwell too much on Thiostolf’s sorrows when she had a fair share of her own. Unlike her, Sigurd didn’t seem to mind skipping a meal or two, and by now she was keenly aware of not having had the time for breakfast. She was nauseous even before getting into the boat. 

It was still snowing as they set off, but in the brisk wind, it felt more like grains of hail than snow flakes. The sea was rough, and it was only by sheer force of will that Disa managed not to be sick. 

By the time they reached Eagle Island, she didn’t think she’d be able to climb all the way up to the cottage. She wanted nothing more than to lie down and die. But they got out of the boat and she had no choice but to feel better. Some things had to be done no matter how you felt about it. 

“Now what?” Sigurd asked Birsa.

“Biarni and Eyvindr will stay here and build a pyre. I brought some charcoal from the smithy. I’ll stay here and prepare things.” Birsa took a pouch from the bundle and hung it from her girdle. “You’ll go and get the body. Remember, you have to be back by nightfall. Before she wakes.”

There were no farewells, no grand words like the ones Sigurd had exchanged with the men yesterday. They all just drifted apart. 

Disa followed Sigurd up the hill, into the forest.

*

They didn't talk as they climbed the steep path. Sigurd was panting like an old man, and Disa wasn't much better off. She was even more tired than the previous time, not just in her body, but in her mind. She felt worn down from everything that had happened in the last few days. 

She was no longer thinking, just walking. Putting one foot in front of the other took all the strength and concentration she had. There was nothing left in her for more.

Soon her entire world was reduced to the grey shadows of the forest around her, the icy sting of the snow, and the darkness of Sigurd’s cloak ahead of her. They walked and walked, and then, at some point, it stopped being so tiresome. 

She tumbled into Sigurd as he stopped.

“How long have we been walking downhill?” he asked.

So that was why it was easier. How had she not noticed? How had neither of them noticed until now?

“It’s Gersemi.” He swore and peeled off his gloves.

The next moment he was kneeling on the ground, brushing away the snow from one of the roots that lay across the path. He used his dagger to slice off a piece of the bark and carved a rune into the exposed wood. Then he pushed up his left sleeve, bit his lip in concentration, and cut himself above his wrist. When the blood welled up he rubbed some of it into the runes.

“I’m sorry,” he said as he reached for her hand. “There are other ways, but I would need things I don’t currently have.”

Disa removed her mitten and rolled up her sleeve. The dagger was sharp and he didn’t cut deep, just enough to break the skin. She barely felt it, but the sight of her own blood still made her nauseous.

He added her blood to his and sang a galdr over the rune. Then he opened the pouch that hung from his belt and found a coiled leather thong.

“If she can make us lose our way, she’s also able to separate us,” he said. “We won’t let that happen.”

She hesitated when she reached for her again, remembering how he’d managed to undo the knots tying him to the bed the other night. But she had no choice but to trust him, and she let him take her hand. He tied one end of the thong around his wrist, then tied the other end to hers, making sure it touched both their blood. Now they couldn’t get more than three feet from each other.

“We’ll still need to be vigilant,” he said, and they kept walking.

Night was creeping in by the time Disa heard a familiar voice from the forest. She looked about. She could see nothing in the violet-tinged shadows between the snow-laden trees. Then she heard the voice again, stronger this time, saying the name no one had used for so long. After a moment of confusion, she turned, walking in the direction of the voice. It couldn’t be, could it? But the faint memory of her dream that morning lingered somewhere in her head, making the longing even worse than it would otherwise had been. 

“Mother?” she switched to the mixed language they’d used between them. “Mother! I’m here! Where are you?”

She would have wandered off on her own, but the tug at her arm reminded her she was still tied to Sigurd. She tore off her mittens and started tearing at the knot, but her fingers were clumsy with cold.

“What are you doing?” It was Sigurd’s voice.

The thong slackened as he approached her. He touched her shoulder, then, when she didn’t react, he took hold of her arm. The large hand grabbing her from behind caused the old rage to rise up, undimmed and undiluted by time.

“Let go of me,” she cried, and she wasn’t even sure what language she used. “You filthy—”

His touch vanished.

“Disa? What’s wrong?”

She turned. The moment of stillness when they faced each other fooled him, made him lower his guard. Then she stamped on his foot, like her mother had taught her. When he bent over, she drove her knee into his groin. He let out a muffled sound and fell to the ground, taking her with him.

She managed to free herself of him and crawl away. She began to claw at the knot on her wrist, trying and trying but failing to undo it. She wasn’t quick enough. Sigurd got hold of her arm.

“No!” She turned around and batted at his hand, then at his face, hitting his nose.

Desperate, she used her teeth on the knot. It rubbed into the blood from the cut and her mouth filled with the taste, as if she were an animal trying to gnaw off a limb to get out of a trap. Behind her, Sigurd sat up. He reached for her. She kicked at him, still working on the knot.

She thought she’d make it, but in the next moment he’d managed to get hold of her. She fought back, but she was no match for him. He forced her down on the ground and grabbed both of her wrists to pin them above her head. She tried to bite him. She spat in his face as she wriggled underneath him, trapped.

Her mother spoke to her again, and she stilled and listened. Snow fell on her upturned face, melting into tears.

“See?” Her mother’s voice was hard with an anger that was no longer burning, but had cooled into ice. “He’s just like the others. He almost had you believe him, but now he’s showing his true self! A wolf will always be a wolf, no matter how much it pretends to be just a big dog.”

She hadn’t known, until then, how well the body remembered. But as all order, all reason, all words, faded, she felt her body clench. Muscles she didn’t know she could control went rigid. She bared her teeth and stared into his eyes, waiting for his knee to part her thighs and for his hand to pull up her skirts.

“This is how he repays your help,” her mother said. “This is what you get for siding with him against a girl destroyed by their wickedness. You should have let him die. Was Gudrun Ylfa so kind to you that you owe it to her to save the bastard son she bore her brother?”

Sigurd was panting on top of her, but his expression was confused rather than gloating. She stared at him, at the face that was so much like his mother’s and uncle’s and so supposedly unlike those of his brothers or father. 

To know the truth about him was like seeing him for the first time.

That one truth was like a light, instantly illuminating the lies that surrounded it. The voice might be her mother’s, but the words were not. 

“Disa,” Sigurd was saying. “Disa, wake up.”

She relaxed, as much as she was able to. After a few moments, his grip on her wrists loosened. He shifted his weight and let her breathe properly. She gasped, then kept panting as he let go of her wrists altogether, supporting himself on his lower arms for a moment, still keeping her caged in.

“Are you yourself now?”

She rubbed her wrist. The skin was raw. It didn’t ache yet, but she knew it would, later. She nodded.

“It’s Gersemi,” Sigurd said. He climbed off of her. He sat down on the snowy ground and wiped his face. “I’m sorry. I should have been gentler. Are you all right?”

Disa sat up. Everything made sense, at last.

“I heard my mother,” she said. “She told me you were just like the men; the men who…” She couldn’t finish the sentence. “She said I should have let you die.”

“And do you agree?”

“It wasn’t my mother speaking. But Gersemi told me one truth. She said you weren’t your father’s son, but your mother’s child with her brother.”

He stared into the dark beyond her. “Like Sigmund and Signy,” he said, his voice dull. “Well, it makes sense.” 

She waited for him to say something more, to react. Instead, he reached for her mittens, still lying where she’d dropped them. He brushed off the snow. His face was still. She couldn’t see beyond the mask at all.

“What happens now?” she asked.

He looked at her, as if he’d briefly forgotten that she were with him. 

“It changes nothing.” He got up and reached for her, helping her stand “We continue on. Whatever you hear, don’t listen.”

He began to walk again. Even though he was just ahead, she could barely make him out. The snowfall made the sky meld with the shadows rising from between the trees. Everything was the colour of bruises and ash, as if fire and violence lay behind them, rather than ahead.

*

Eventually, the wind died down. The forest was quiet, utterly quiet. There was only the sound of Disa’s steps; Sigurd made no noise as he walked. Gersemi waited, as present as the trees around them, but unseen and unheard. And all the while snow fell, slowly erasing the path ahead, and piling on their cloaks like dandelion fluff.

Then that, too, ended. The shroud of clouds began to open up and they could see again. There was still some light, even as they reached the clearing.

Disa stopped for a moment, but Sigurd hurried ahead, past the ruined cottage to the rubble from the rockfall. There he remained until Disa joined him, staring at a patch of disturbed earth next to a boulder. The recent snow hadn’t settled there.

He knelt next to it and began to brush away the dirt. The wind that must still be blowing far above them chased off the last clouds, and in the glow of the dying sun, Disa saw the roundness of a forehead and the slope of a long, slightly upturned nose.

Sigurd began to dig with his bare hands, revealing a girl’s face and torso. Her shift was stained with earth and fresh blood, but her skin was clean. Despite the red line on the neck, the face was rosy and beautiful. She was like a flower caught in ice.

There was a frayed, stained hole in the fabric where a stake – now gone – had been driven through her body, but the chest was rising and falling. She was still breathing.

Disa wasn’t the only one who’d noticed.

“How can she be alive?” Sigurd asked, making the sign against evil.

“She isn’t,” Disa said.

He couldn’t go on, and Disa had to kneel by his side and help him remove the rest of the loose soil, exposing the entire body. There was a sword lying next to the girl, free of rust despite having lain in the ground for all these years.

“I bet that it’s the other Sigurd’s,” Disa said. She couldn’t say ’father’ or ’uncle’ about a man who was both.

Sigurd looked like he was about to weep or throw up. He was whiter than the unliving girl in the grave.

“We need to get her to the pyre,” Disa said, because someone had to take the reins. “Carry her body and I’ll take the head…” She considered the wound again. “We’ll stake her first, just in case.” It wasn’t something she’d ever expected herself to say, certainly not in such a brisk and businesslike fashion.

Sigurd still wouldn’t do anything. She began to search the rubble for something useful and ended up with a branch. She broke it over her knee, but when she was to drive it into the hole in the girl’s chest, Sigurd stopped her.

“I can’t bear it,” he said.

She stared at him. “You’re a warrior. You should be able to bear it.”

He shook his head, then tore the branch from her hand and threw it away. She gasped out loud, unbelieving. The monster before them had strangled eight girls and mauled several people. It didn’t deserve leniency.

“If you can’t stomach it, then don’t look.” She picked up the sword instead. It was heavier than she’d anticipated, and she was going to use both of her hands when he stopped her.

His fingers locked around her wrist. “Wait,” he said. “Let me—” She tried to wriggle free of his grip, but he was firm.

Hidden beyond the forest, the sun finally sank beyond the horizon.

The dead girl opened her golden eyes. She blinked, like someone waking up from sleep. The taloned fingers of one hand fumbled around the ground, then plucked at the fabric of her shift before touching her own face.

Disa picked up the sword again and pressed it into Sigurd’s hand. “Let’s go!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary
> 
> Aldeigjuborg - Staraya Ladoga, Russia.
> 
> Galdr - a spell or a charm. It was sung, perhaps in a high-pitched voice. 
> 
> Sigmund (Sigmunðr) and Signy (Signý) - Characters from the legends of the Volsungs. They're twins and the eldest children (there are also seven younger brothers) of king Volsung/Völsung. Signy is forced to marry the evil Geatish king Siggeir. He invites Signy's kin to a feast, where he kills her father and captures her brothers. The brothers are put in the stocks, and each night a monstrous she-wolf (Siggeir's witch of a mother) eats one of them. Signy manages to save Sigmund, and swears she will avenge her father and brothers.
> 
> When her own sons grow, she sends them to Sigmund (who is living in the forest) to be tested: serpents appear to frighten them, and their shirts are sewn to their bodies, then ripped off, to test their ability to withstand pain. The first son fails the test, and Signy orders Sigmund to kill him. The second one also fails. She then meets a sorceress and they exchange shapes (hamr) and in this borrowed shape, Signy seduces her brother. She gives birth to a son who passes the tests, and who eventually kills her husband.
> 
> There's a companion post [here](https://ceceril.dreamwidth.org/13269.html) if you want to read my thoughts on this chapter.


	25. Nine Daggers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: a little gore.
> 
> There's a glossary and a link to a companion post in the end notes.

**PART ELEVEN – The ninth night**

***

Running downhill was like falling, a movement over which there was no control, which wouldn’t end until they hit the ground. Soon, Disa could taste blood, and her face felt on fire in the cold air. She knew she wouldn’t last much longer; she’d stumble, and because they were tied together, they’d both fall and get killed. She was faint by the time Sigurd turned away from the path. The shadows were alive with bright stars that danced at the edge of her vision.

“Inside.”

He pushed her underneath a rock, into a dark space that smelled of earth and stone, and crawled in behind her. It was a cave, one that was little more than a fissure in the rock, narrowing almost into nothing. 

They lay down, their bodies crammed together in the small space. Sigurd was gasping for air like a man saved from drowning. Disa could feel his breath against her forehead. Her own throat was raw, aching with each gulp of air.

For an endless moment, their breathing was the only thing to interrupt the heavy silence. But it couldn’t last.

“Sigurd!” It was Gersemi’s voice. “Sigurd!”

She was coming closer. She’d find them soon, and there would be nowhere to go. They were trapped. Disa closed her eyes. In the utter darkness, it made no difference.

Sigurd tensed up. His hand on Disa’s hip squeezed hard, then loosened almost instantly. “Don’t worry. She can’t enter this place,” he whispered, each word separated from the other by a breath. “If we survive, I’ll explain.”

“Sigurd, where are you? I’m so cold.” Unlike them, Gersemi wasn’t winded. She could have run all night without ever tiring.

Sigurd didn’t reply, but soon, Disa felt him grow restless. The long fingers on her hip began to move, drumming quickly. Disa put her arm around him to calm him.

When she wasn’t acknowledged, Gersemi began clawing at the rock that overlay the entrance to the cave. The sound, a maddening _scritch-scritch_ that Disa could feel as much as hear, like the sensation of sand between her teeth, had Disa’s nerves on edge even before the wailing began.

Gersemi cried for her brother, and although there were words, the same words as always, her voice wasn’t human. It was like listening to wolves howling in the night. It leached the warmth from Disa’s body until the sweat from the run was like ice on her body.

Being so close, it was impossible for Sigurd not to feel when she began to shiver. “Cold?” he asked, and when she nodded – the top of her head moving against his chin – she felt him wriggle. She didn’t understand what he was doing until he put his arm around her, and with it, one end of his cloak. The same cloak he'd covered her in, the first night she'd shared with him. She edged in closer. Now they were both swept up in it.

“Sigurd! Sigurd, my brother. Why don’t you love me?” Outside the cave, Gersemi’s voice was human again.

Sigurd had been tense all the time. Now it felt as if he were about to snap. He was about to give in.

“Don’t listen,” Disa said. When he moaned, forlorn, she tried to cover his ears. “Don’t listen, or you’ll be the death of us!”

He began to move. She knew that if he gave in, she wouldn’t be able to hold him back.

She wriggled up so they were face to face and pressed her forehead to his. The pommel of the sword between them dug into her inner thigh. 

“Don’t,” she said. When he moved his head, their noses bumped together. He turned, just slightly, and she felt his nose rub against hers. “Don’t listen to her.” She grabbed his shoulder. She could feel the taut tendons and sharp bones even through the layers of his clothes.

He panted. She felt his breath against her mouth. She parted her lips to speak, but the words wouldn’t come and she sighed. Their breaths mingled. She put her mouth to his. At first, she almost didn’t know what to do. It had been so long since the last time, in another life. 

And yet, the sensation was so familiar – his lips, the scruffy, scant beard that might as well have belonged on a youth of seventeen – that it was like coming home, to finding yet another piece of the girl she had once been, the one she thought had died on that ship. 

She licked at his lower lip, which was dry, a little chapped. She bit into it, prompting a gasp out of him. Then she licked into his surprised, open mouth. He tasted like she did: a hint of metal that could be either blood, or fear, or both.

She dug her fingers into his hair, forcing his head back, and deepened the kiss. At last, he responded. His arm tightened around her, moulding her body to his as he let her enter him. Somewhere beyond them, Gersemi stopped keening, or perhaps they just stopped listening.

It should have been frenzied, desperate, but it wasn’t. Unlike the forbidden kisses she’d shared with boys in her youth, there was nothing greedy about this. Sigurd wasn’t pushing her for more, didn’t even try to get inside her clothes. He let her kiss him – and kissed her back – as if her mouth on his was all he wanted. Disa lost herself in the sensation, in the unexpected gentleness of it. 

Too soon, he broke the kiss. She heard herself moan out loud. Then tey were just breathing again, their foreheads pressed together and the air between them a hot, damp cloud. She already wanted to kiss him again.

“I won’t lose you to her,” Disa said, her lips still tingling. She hadn’t noticed the faint echo before. It made her words too solemn and full of meaning she wasn’t sure she was ready to own up to. When he didn’t immediately reply, she felt even more of an idiot. 

When the silence between them lingered, she began to feel as if crawling out to be mauled by Gersemi was preferable to staying here, having lost every last trace of her dignity. 

He finally spoke before she could do so.

“You won’t lose me to another woman ever, dead or alive.” There was the faintest wet sound, as if he’d licked his lips. It made her heart start beating so hard she could hear it. “Do you remember the tale of Sigurd and Sigrdrifa? She told him, on their ninth and last night together… She said… She said she was a proud warrior who didn’t love easily, that she’d give her heart to one man only. I know now what she meant. My Dís, I mean Disa, I—”

She hushed him. She had realised that the drumming sound wasn’t just her heart. It was reaching them from beyond their sanctuary, beyond even Gersemi’s clawing at the rocks.

The noise grew louder. Now she knew what it was: swords banging on shields.

“Come out, corpse!” It was Biarni’s voice. He’d always been soft-spoken, but now there was all the fury of a wounded bear in his voice. “Come out, flesh-eater, and meet our swords and our fire! If I learn you’ve harmed my lord, I’ll make you wish you were still alive, that you could still die!”

More insults followed, and now Biarni’s voice was joined by that of Eyvindr, the steward. At first, there was no reply, not even a sign that Gersemi was there, or had noticed them. Then Disa smelled smoke and now Gersemi, who seemed to be just outside, hissed.

“We’re making a pyre for the unliving,” Biarni cried. “We’re going to come for you! We’re going to set this entire island on fire!”

Disa heard steps leaving. Walking, at first. Then running.

“She’s on her way to them,” Sigurd said. “Can you stay here on your own? You’ll be safe until I return. I can’t huddle here when my men are in danger.”

“We’re still bound together,” Disa said. “If you’re going, then I’m going.”

He was clever enough that he didn’t contradict her.

*

Getting out was more trouble than going in, and when they emerged, night had fallen. The moon had risen above the forest, and with the clouds gone, it lit up the snow. Their eyes were used to the absolute darkness of the cave, and it was not difficult to find their way.

Soon, they saw the pyre between the trees. The flames rose golden against the night, tainting the sky directly above it a greyish red.

Sigurd hastened his steps, then slowed down again. Disa could hear the frustration in his breath, even sense it in his taut posture. They kept walking, until at last they’d reached the edge of the forest. Biarni had gone quiet again. The only noise came from the fire.

Gersemi was outlined against the flames. She’d cornered the men against a boulder. At first, Disa only saw their shields and swords. Then she noticed the protective runes drawn into the snow in front of them, Birsa’s handiwork, even if the woman herself was nowhere to be seen.

“Gersemi,” Sigurd said. His voice rang out proudly, though still marred by Gersemi’s strangling. It wasn’t his skald’s voice, but the voice of the jarl. “I’m here now.”

She turned around. The beautiful face was deformed into a snarl. Then she breathed deeply, and it smoothed out again and became more human. 

“Sigurd.” She came closer. When he made as if to back away, she stopped. 

“I only ever wanted what was best for you,” he said.

Gersemi laughed.

“It’s the truth. You were my sister and I loved you. I’ll always love you, but you’re no longer yourself. There’s no place for the unliving in my hall.”

She continued towards him. When he didn’t move, she joined him, ignoring Disa. She reached for his face. With one of her taloned fingers, she tracked a tear that made its way down his cheek. Her finger slipped down along his jaw, his neck, slicing through his clothes to bare his chest.

It was the work of moments, but felt like years. She leaned in close to mouth at the skin she’d exposed: his chest, then his neck. She opened her mouth wider and her teeth – too sharp and too long – glittered against the place underneath his ear, where Disa had left a bruise. She licked along the vein, gloating.

“We’ll always be together now,” she said. “And you’ll always love me the most.”

And then she sighed and buried her head against Sigurd’s neck and they both sank to the ground, kneeling.

Biarni cried out. Eyvindr came running.

There was a sword sticking out of Gersemi’s back. She was clinging to Sigurd. Her mouth was open at his throat, and she was still breathing. Sigurd’s face was white and lined with tears.

“Finish her off,” he whispered. “Don’t make me do that, too.”

Disa gathered Gersemi’s hair in her hands and tugged. The head came loose. She tossed it into the pyre, as far into the hottest part as she could. The hair burned first, infusing the clean smoke with a nasty smell. Then the features changed, melting and distorting, and Disa turned away. 

The men had come to Sigurd’s aid. They took Gersemi’s slight, tall body from his arms. Without even daring to remove the sword, they threw it into the flames to join the head. Disa didn’t watch it burn, she was more concerned with Sigurd.

He hadn’t moved. He was still kneeling in the snow. There was blood on him, on his face and on his clothes, but as she crouched by his side and examined him, she realised that hardly any of it was his. When she hugged him, he didn’t respond for a moment or two, then he hugged her back, hard enough that it made her ribs hurt. She let him. At least he was alive.

“I killed her,” he whispered into her ear, as if the words were so shameful he couldn’t say them out loud. His breathing was quick and shallow. “I ran her through. Oh, gods, this is a níðing’s deed! I killed my own sister!”

It took all her strength to pretend to be calm as she caressed his hair and his face, wiping away blood and tears. “No, ást mín,” she said. _My love_. “Don’t blame yourself. That thing was not your sister. Gersemi was already dead. She died a long, long time ago.” 

She made him stand up and hugged him again, pressing her cheek against his chest until he hugged her back. He was shaking.

Somewhere behind them, Birsa had appeared. She was singing a funeral song to soothe Gersemi as the hungry flames devoured her flesh. She sang for a long time, as the body curled in on itself and the flesh shrank to expose the bones. When she stopped, the men began singing another song and she keened, out of respect for the one Gersemi had once been. 

Sigurd had detached himself by now and stood silent next to Disa. Though he stared intently at the flames and the spectacle at their centre, she had no idea what he was really seeing.

Once the men finally fell quiet, there was nothing to do but to sit down to watch the pyre burn. Disa didn’t protest when Sigurd pulled her into his lap. She put her arms around his neck and rested her head on his shoulder as he rocked her. To anyone it would look as if he were comforting her, but she knew that she was the one holding him together.

As the stars finally burned out, so did the pyre. At dawn, all that was left of it was a bed of embers glowing under a dusting of ashes. Gersemi’s bones – white and twisted, snapped with the heat – still outlined where her body had lain. The first Sigurd’s sword had become a blackened, brittle thing.

“Now we must end this,” Birsa said. “If she’s to stay dead, it must be done properly.”

She raked through the ashes with a long branch. The frail bones crumbled further as she mixed them with the ashes, until there was no longer anything that recalled a human being. Then she made them all gather snow and throw it on the pyre site, so that it hissed like a snake, and steam billowed up in great clouds. 

She fetched her bundle from the boat and unwrapped it, uncovering nine daggers. She gave them two each, and kept a single one for herself.

“Stab the ashes,” she said. “Bury the daggers to the hilt.”

They did as she told them; cautiously standing at the edge of the pyre site. Birsa didn’t share their fears. Once they’d all followed her orders, she stepped inside the blackened, polluting circle. Charcoal crunching underfoot, she walked into the middle, where she rammed her dagger deep. She walked out backwards, and wiped the sweat from her face, leaving a streak of soot. She took Disa’s hand.

“Sister,” Birsa said, and it was a moment or two before Disa grasped that she was addressing Gersemi. “Sister, take the long path to the place beyond, and don’t return. Go past the gate of the fallen, to the Lady’s own hall, the one of the many seats. The Lady is as kind as she’s beautiful, sister; she’ll welcome you. Your mother’s there; she’s already pouring the mead. Go now, to where you’ll never be cold, or hungry, or sick ever again. Go, and leave life to the living.”

She let go of Disa’s hand and turned to Sigurd. “You’ll build a great cairn to cover her ashes and you’ll sacrifice here, every year at the Dísablót. Now let’s all break our fast and go home. There are still things to put right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary
> 
> ást mín - My love.
> 
> Níðing - someone guilty of níð, a deed so foul they no longer conformed to their gender role and had no honour. This involved sexual accusations, as well as non-sexual ones, such as cowardice and/or murder. A níðing was seen as the lowest, most despicable of creatures, similar to how a paedophile would be viewed today.
> 
> Sigurd and Sigrdrifa - Characters from the stories about the Volsungs. Sigurd belongs to the third generation, and is the youngest son of Sigmund. He kills the dragon Fafnir, steals its cursed treasure, then saves the valkyrja Sigrdrifa (also known as Brynhild), who has been put to sleep and surrounded by a ring of fire. It was said that only a man who knew no fear would be able to save her, and Sigurd was that man. They spend nine nights together, and Sigrdrifa teaches him galdrar and wisdom. Then Sigurd leaves, is enchanted, marries another woman (Gudrun), then swaps bodies with Gudrun's brother and goes back to save Sigrdrifa another time, but this time he doesn't sleep with her. Sigrdrifa marries the other guy, then finds out about Sigurd, and eventually orders her brothers to kill him for being unfaithful. When Sigurd's pyre is lit, she climbs it and is immolated with him. In the German version of these stories, they are Siegfried and Brünnhilde of Wagner fame.
> 
> The Lady - The goddess Freyja.
> 
> Hall of many seats - Sessrúmnir, Freyja's hall, where women might end up after death, and also half of the warriors from the battlefields.
> 
> Dísablót - a sacrifice to the dísir in late winter.
> 
> There's a companion post [here](https://ceceril.dreamwidth.org/13789.html) if you want to read my thoughts on this chapter.


	26. Mistress of Sunda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a glossary and a link to a companion post in the end notes.
> 
> Since the warnings (relating to violence) are a bit spoiler-y this time, they're in the end notes.

The sun, having barely climbed over the horizon, was already sinking by the time they returned to Sunda. A group of warriors had gathered by the shore to greet them, just like the first time Disa had arrived here.

This time, the tall man that detached from the group was Thiostolf. His face had borrowed some of Sigurd’s pallor, as if he hadn’t slept.

“Is all well, lord?” he, asked as Sigurd stepped ashore. His narrow eyes were open wide.

“All is well,” Sigurd replied, as calmly as if he hadn’t just spent all night watching his sister’s pyre. As if he wasn’t soot-stained and weary. He took Thiostolf’s outstretched hand. “And here?”

Thiostolf’s mouth was open for a moment too long before he spoke. “All is well now that you’re back, thank the gods,” he said, as stiffly as if reciting lines from some poem about the gods, or taking part in a ceremony.

“The curse is broken.”

Thiostolf grinned, showing too much teeth for it not to look slightly desperate. He still wouldn’t let go of Sigurd’s hand. “As we knew it would be. Tonight, we’ll have a feast!”

But the men around him were on edge, like nervous dogs unsure about the mood of their master, and they didn’t cheer. The tension that had been eased at Eagle Island remained here at Sunda. There was an awkward pause during which no one seemed to know what to say or do. Sigurd gently peeled away Thiostolf’s fingers from his hand. He offered no words of reassurance. Clearly, in front of the men wasn’t the place for the intimacy of friendship.

Disa allowed herself to think that the curse really was broken now that Gersemi was gone for good. Looking beyond the men, she saw a small brown cat lying curled up outside the door of one of the boat houses. It was the first cat she’d ever seen here, apart from Birsa’s Sea-Troll. She took it as a good sign. The cats had been gone, Birsa had said. Well, wherever they had been, they had now returned.

“Geir,” Sigurd said, addressing the young man who’d wanted to fight Biarni two nights ago. “I’m moving back into my house immediately. I don’t want to have to spend another night in the jarl’s chambers. See to it.”

Geir nodded and darted off as quickly as his honour would let him, so obviously eager to be gone. The rest of the warriors seemed to take his departure as a sign that they, too, were allowed to leave, and drifted off. Only Thiostolf stayed with his lord.

The sky above was darkening, the shadows lengthening on the snow as they made their way to the hall. A raven cawed. In the cold, still air, the sound, though not particularly loud, was so clear it felt like the bird itself could have been right behind them. It made them all startle. Sigurd’s arm tightened around Disa. She saw his other arm move, his hand searching instinctively for the sword he hadn’t brought with him to Eagle Island.

They were in the courtyard, the great hall looming dark above them, when Kata ran through the door. Disa hadn’t seen her since before the thul was killed. This Kata was nothing like the girl Disa had first met only a few days ago. The round, pretty face was hollowed out. The rosebud mouth had shrunk into nothingness. Her eyes were dark. Sorrow had ravaged her.

“You need to come,” she told Sigurd. Her body was stiff, her movements awkward. One of the younger serving boys appeared at her side, as if he’d run after her and had just caught up. He didn’t look much better.

Disa felt a pressure over her chest, like the weight of trouble still to come. It wasn’t over yet. Of course, she’d known it couldn’t be, but she’d hoped there would be at least some time to recuperate. She looked at Thiostolf, but the confusion she saw on his face suggested he knew as little about this as she – or Sigurd – did. She took Sigurd’s hand as he followed Kata inside. The others trailed behind.

The hall was nearly empty, but the few people there were whispering, tittering. Something was wrong, but no one seemed to know what. Not yet. 

Sigurd was silent as he advanced past them, his face stern. He paused slightly before opening the door to the antechamber, but that was the only time Disa saw him hesitate

Thora was sitting by the dying embers of the hearth. There was a smell of burnt herbs and fat in the air, the last remnant of a small sacrifice. At the sight of her, Kata finally began to weep, her body wrecked by huge, almost noiseless sobs. 

Disa hurried to Thora’s side and helped her stand. Thora’s old joints creaked.

“It’s the mistress, master,” Thora said. Standing in the scant light sifting down through the smoke hole, her face was like that of the very old. It had been wiped clean of any expression.

“My mother?” There was panic in those first two words, before the mask slipped into place. “Take me to her at once.”

Thora led them to the door opening into the enclosure. She pointed at the hof, but wouldn’t go near it. 

Inside, from one of the roof-beams, hung the mistress’ body. There was a kicked-over bench by her feet.

Her staff lay abandoned below the gods, like a last offering.

*

“I never thought she’d do something like that,” Thora said. By that time, the men had lowered the mistress’ body and handed it to the women who would wash her and prepare her for her last journey. “She said she was going to sacrifice for your success.”

Birsa had taken Kata away, and the men had gone to see to the practical matters of the mistress’ temporary burial. 

“It’s not your fault,” Sigurd said. He seemed poised, but when Disa looked at his right hand – which he wouldn’t let her hold – she saw that he was pressing the tip of his thumb so hard against his middle finger that the nail had gone white. “No one’s blaming you.”

Thora moaned, as if in pain.

But he wasn’t done. “There’s one more thing. Is it true Sigurd was my father?”

Thora’s fingers tightened around her cup. Her swollen knuckles stood out. For a while, she said nothing. “She was just a child when he began… It wasn’t right, what he did. She had no one else to turn to, and he filled her head with stories about Signy and Sigmund. I never… I saw things, but I didn’t want to know what I suspected. Neither did anyone else. And besides, what could we have done? Not even his own father dared to go against him.”

“You were trying to tell us,” Disa said. “That tapestry. You were the one who put it here.” She pointed at the thing in question: the depiction of the tale of Signy and her brother.

“I should have said it out loud, but I didn’t want to… Oh, if I had, two of my girls wouldn’t have died in my place and poor Kata would still have her grandfather. I was a coward. I feared what the mistress might do to me if I talked.”

“She lured Ragnar the skald and Sibbi outside to be killed.” Sigurd studied his hands, as if he couldn’t bear to meet her eyes. “And I imagine the girls were killed in the same way. Whether as warnings, or accidentally, we’ll never know.”

Thora’s mouth had thinned into just another wrinkle in her face. “I found them together. On the second evening of his wedding festivities. That was when they made you.”

“My mother and her brother?”

“Your father – I mean, her husband – was with me. He’d asked me to help him find her.” She fingered at her sleeve. “Gunnolf was a decent man, but terribly unlucky. He didn’t deserve what he got. He should’ve run away with Jorunn and made his fortune overseas instead of obeying his father and marrying Gudrun. He loved Jorunn, and she loved him.”

“What happened?”

“He pretended not to have seen. Sigurd laughed, of course. There he was, naked in bed, with his equally naked sister in his arms, and he laughed. He thought Gunnolf was a coward, someone who took lightly to being cuckolded by a man more powerful than him. But Gunnolf was more wily than Sigurd gave him credit for. He politely told me we better step out and let Gudrun make herself decent. Then, the next day, he took Sigurd hunting.”

“Mother said Sigurd died in a hunting accident.”

“He was attacked by wolves, or so they said. I washed the body. He’d been mauled; it left him gelded. Your mother was inconsolable, but she was the only one. He’d made too many enemies.”

“Gunnolf killed him?”

“No one ever accused him of it. Not even your mother was shameless enough to say anything in public. But there’s more. She wasn’t the only girl he wronged, not even the only one of his own blood.”

Sigurd’s face showed some emotion at last: something like curiosity. “Jorunn?”

“Once her mother died and she became the vǫlva, he demanded a tribute. It might have started before that, even. I don’t know. But Gersemi was his daughter. Your mother didn’t know, not for a long time. I think she found out when she went to see Jorunn. Sometimes…” Her voice drifted off. For a few moments, she seemed far away. “Sometimes I wonder if Jorunn and Gersemi would have been alive still, if it hadn’t been for that. Everything else, Gudrun could stand, if grudgingly. But _that_ she simply couldn’t forgive. As if it was Jorunn’s fault that Sigurd forced himself on her, poor girl.”

“And now they’re all gone.” Sigurd went to the tapestry. He took it down, then put it on the fire. The panels came alive for a moment, glowing brighter than ever, then shrivelled, filling the room with the stink of burnt wool. “All dead, except me.”

*

“There’s so much to be done,” he said, much later, once he and Disa had retired to his house. “I expect my kinsman Rognvald will be here tomorrow, or the day after that, to see if I’m as insane as people say I am, or whether I’m still man enough to occupy my high seat. And my mother… Her pyre… ”

He had removed his tunic and balled it up in his hands. Now he threw it, probably intending for it to end up on one of the chests. Instead, it flew in a miserable little arc before ending up on the floor. Disa folded the gown she’d just removed, then picked up the tunic and folded it, too. She put both of the garments away to be laundered. She would make sure this place was tidied. Though the bed was clean, the chamber was still full of stacked chests, and the rest of the house still a mess.

Tomorrow. She would do it tomorrow. She would throw up if forced to do anything more today.

“You don’t need to think of that now,” she said. “You need to rest.”

She kneeled by his side and helped him with his shoes. He began stroking her hair. His hand was heavy and his movements slow. He smelled of smoke. She probably did, too. She stilled for a moment, resting her head against his thigh, letting herself be petted.

“You’re free now,” he said. 

“Free?” She looked up at him. She was too tired to understand.

“From me.” He pointed at her wrist. 

The black thong was still tied around her wrist like a bracelet, but at some point during the night he’d cut off the length that connected her to him. She couldn’t remember when. So much had happened in so little time; it was still all jumbled together in her memory.

“Would you like your reward?” he asked. “I mean the man and the farm. You can have it now, if you care. Or tomorrow. Tomorrow is probably better.”

She rose. The floor was too cold.

“We don’t have to talk about it now.” She wondered why he had to bring it up at all. Did he want her to sleep elsewhere? She didn’t think she had the strength to walk to the women’s house. “You need some sleep.”

“We’ll do it like I told you before,” he insisted. He was still strange. He had cried for his sister, but not yet for his mother. He looked too calm, as if he was yet to react. “I’ll line up all my servants and warriors and dependants. And then you choose the man you want.”

When Disa didn’t speak, he went on. He nervously scratched his neck, just below his ear, where her mark was purple against his white skin. “I’d put myself there, too, hoping you’d choose me.”

The room was so very quiet around them, as if waiting for her reply. The shadows were deep beyond the light of the brazier. She found herself wondering if Gersemi was truly gone, or if the invisible part of her still lingered here, jealous and listening.

“You don’t think I’d make a good husband?” Sigurd asked, misinterpreting her expression. “I’d be away every summer, sometimes even longer. I’d let you run Sunda for me. You’d be its mistress and Birsa the vǫlva.” He paused, as if seized by another thought. “Just as in my dream: the raven and the bear, feasting on the wolf’s carcass.”

“Don’t,” she said. This talk of dreams and visions made her ill at ease.

“I never knew the wolf in the vision was my mother,” he said quietly. “I thought it would be me, and that the bear would be Biarni. I thought you were meant to end up with him.”

She reached for him, grasping his shoulders. “Shh, hush now. You need to rest. I won’t marry Biarni. Now let’s get you into bed.”

He obeyed, and she joined him.

“So you don’t want me, then.” He was staring at the ceiling.

“I didn’t say. How did you reach that conclusion?”

“You don’t want Biarni, and he’s worth ten of me. If you don’t want him, how could you possibly want me?”

She sighed. For an intelligent man, he wasn’t very clever. But she was too tired to be irritated. “I was a thrall before I came here,” she explained, not wanting to take advantage of him when he was at his weakest. “It would taint any children—”

“No.” He turned to face her. His eyes were serious in his ashen face. “That’s not what the law says. You weren’t _born_ a thrall, but a merchant’s daughter. It’s just a matter of proving that you are who you are, and then I’ll have it settled at the Thing. What was done to you doesn’t change who you are. If we have children, they will be proud to have you as their mother.”

This, she hadn’t thought of. Why hadn’t she? Her heart began to beat faster. “You really think it can be done?”

“Of course it can. It will be done. Can’t you see that it’s the least of the things I’d do for you?”

She couldn’t quite take it in. It was too much, on top of everything else that had happened. But even through the fog in her head, she understood the implications of his words. What had been impossible was possible. She wouldn’t have to stand back and watch some inexperienced girl take him from her. She wouldn’t have to suffer another man.

“I don’t need to pick a husband,” she said. “I already have one, and I wouldn’t trade him for anyone. I choose you.” She leaned in and kissed him on the mouth.

When she leaned away again, his mouth fell open. He touched his lips. 

“Despite everything you know about my family?” he asked. “Despite what I am?” 

“Despite what I am,” she echoed.

He shook his head. “What are you, my Dís,” he said, “if not a blessing? To me, and to my people?” Then he kissed her, just as she had kissed him; choosing her, just as she had chosen him. 

No flame flared up, nothing fell to the floor. Gersemi was really gone. 

“You won’t regret it,” he said, and with great seriousness, he kissed her again. “I won’t be undeserving of you.”

She smoothed back his hair from his forehead. She couldn’t help but tangle her fingers in the smooth strands, to pull just slightly. “It sounds to me as if you expect me to run away as soon as things get difficult. Have you not realised by now, I’m not someone who gives up? You’re stuck with me.”

He studied her in silence, and at last she saw one corner of his mouth rise, just slightly. It was the closest she’d ever seen to a smile on his face. “Then I know all will be well, because whatever else happens, we’ll have each other.”

“You’ll always have me,” she said.

She thought he would kiss her again, but then he turned around, facing away from her. She felt slighted. Had she said too much? Did he not think she meant it? But then she understood. She followed, daring to creep higher up and lay her arm around him. 

His shoulders were broad, but the rest of him was still so thin. Well, she would be able to do something about it now. She would be the one to nurse him back to health, to put him back together. Perhaps Birsa was the one who’d saved him from the curse, but she would be the one to save him in the days and weeks – in the months and years – to come. 

“I’ll be here for you tomorrow, _ást mín_ ,” she said, whispering words into his hair that would have embarrassed her at any other time. She felt drunk with relief and other feelings she dare not name. There were tears in her eyes, but she was too tired to weep. “I’ll be here for you when your kinsman comes, and for the funeral, and for as long after that as the gods will let me.”

He was asleep almost before she’d said the last word, surrendering at last to his tiredness. With a sigh, she hugged him closer and followed him into the dreamless dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary
> 
> Gunnolf - From gun-, meaning battle and ulfR, meaning wolf.
> 
> Choose me - "kýss mik" in Old Norse. It sounds a lot like "kyss mik", which means "kiss me", so there had to be a kiss. ;)
> 
> There's a companion post [here](https://ceceril.dreamwidth.org/13894.html) if you want to read my thoughts on this chapter.
> 
> Spoiler-y warning: Suicide (not described, but the method is implied).


	27. Epilogue: The Girl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Deadly violence, minor character death.
> 
> There's a list of references in the end notes, as well as a link to a companion post with my thoughts on this chapter and this story.

Epilogue

***

_Seven years before_

Just over two years after visiting the mother, Gudrun returned to visit the daughter. The path felt steeper this time, and longer. Her face was burning as she reached the clearing. Her breath came in gulps, rasping through her throat.

She found the girl seated on the bench outside the cottage, as still as a fawn might be the moment before bolting. The sight of her was like a brand held to Gudrun’s honour – it hurt to the point of madness. This girl was lovelier than her mother had ever been, lovelier than Gudrun herself at the height of her beauty. She was slender as a young birch, with a delicate, oval face and masses of blond hair so pale it seemed to glow in the dying sunlight. Her eyes were like honey under the long lashes.

She rose as Gudrun approached and bowed like a well-mannered maiden. The filthy little minx; that she should dare to pretend to be respectable.

“Mistress.” Her voice was pleasant. “You have come!” She smiled, hopeful.

Well, she’d soon see sense, and then she wouldn’t smile like that.

“I want to talk.” Gudrun willed her breath to calm down. She had to be aloof.

“Come in.” The girl hesitated. “Or would you rather sit here?”

“I will sit inside, by the hearth. Didn’t your mother teach you how to treat guests?” 

The girl’s cheeks bloomed red. 

Gudrun stepped inside the cottage, her head held high. The girl slipped in behind her.

“Let me offer you some ale, mistress.”

As Gudrun sat, staring haughtily at the embers, the girl found the same horn Jorunn had offered her the last time. Gudrun shuddered, feeling cold. What did this girl know? What had her mother told her?

“I haven’t made it myself,” the girl said as she sipped at it before offering it to Gudrun. “It was given to me.”

Gudrun could well imagine what she’d exchanged for it, but still she drank. Unlike this little half-wild trollop, the ale was decent.

“I seiðed at Thorstein Half-Finn’s farm on the Lady’s day last week,” the girl babbled on, clearly nervous and eager to please. “His wife is pregnant; they wanted to know if the child would live.”

Gudrun offered a small harrumph in reply.

Good ale, and probably the fine fabric of the dress she was wearing; it seemed she’d pleased her patrons. Probably more from the spectacle she’d made of herself and the favours she’d offered the men once she was senseless with lust afterwards, than from any genuine skill at seiðing, Gudrun decided. Jorunn herself had only ever been half-decent.

“It hasn’t been easy since mother died,” the girl said. “But I manage. People have been kind. And my brother—“

“Your brother?”

“Your son, mistress. My own brother, Sigurd. He said—“

“My son is not your brother, girl. Watch your tongue.”

The girl had been gentle and timid, but her eyes flashed. “I beg your pardon, mistress, but my mother told me I was fathered by Sigurd Jarl, who was your brother and her half-brother.” The girl’s chin jutted out. “He was a wicked man who forced himself on my poor mother – his own sister! – as payment for his protection. He deserved what he got: to have his bits torn off by the man he shamed; to have his own dogs savage him. Oh, yes, Gudrun! My mother saw it!”

Gudrun threw the rest of the mead in the girl’s pretty face, then slapped her, for good measure. Something held her back from doing more. She didn’t know what.

The ridiculously kittenish cry that escaped the girl’s lips would have made Gudrun laugh, had she not been boiling over with rage. “How dare you,” she asked. “How dare you speak of my beloved Sigurd like that!”

The girl cradled her chin in her long, slim hand. She peered at Gudrun from behind the veil of her hair. “You mean to say you gave yourself to him willingly? My mother said so, but I refused to believe her.” Her voice shook. Her upper lip curled. Was it just disgust, or was there pity, too?

“My Sigurd was a hero,” Gudrun said, shaking with rage. “He was beautiful and cruel like a god. What we did together was sacred!”

The disgusted expression turned defiant. The girl shook her hair from her face. “My brother and I—”

“Does my son know?”

“Does Sigurd know he’s Sigurd’s son?” Again, the beautiful face before Gudrun changed. Now she was smiling, serene but for an ugly streak of malice. “No. He’s made himself blind and deaf. He won’t know unless you tell him.”

“He’ll never know.”

“Is that why you’re here? To tell me not to tell him?”

“I’ve seen you together again. I told your mother to keep you apart, and now that she’s not here, I’m telling you. Keep away from my son, arghola.”

The girl was confused for a moment or two, then she began to laugh. “You think he’s like his father! You think we get up to the sort of things your brother tricked you into doing!” She moved swiftly away before Gudrun could hit her again. 

Gudrun lunged at her, but the girl eluded her.

“I’ve heard you’re getting married again, at your age,” the girl said, her voice as low as a cat’s purr. “Does your intended know what a well-ridden old mare he’s buying? Was it only your brother, or were your father and his men also allowed inside your shift?”

“I’ll have my men torch this place!” Gudrun cried. She couldn’t even think straight. She wanted to see the little minx hanging from a noose. She wanted her on a pike.

But the words kept coming. “My mother says my brother is the very image of his father. Only his hugr and his heart are different. I think the reason why your ridiculous idea about Sigurd and I hurts you so much is because you wish _you_ were the one bedding this younger version of your dear brother. You’re the filthy arghola, Gudrun Ylfa. You’re not safe for your son to be around, and you know it, that’s why you’re getting married.”

Gudrun roared. She went for the girl again, but the hearth remained between them.

“When you leave to marry your petty chieftain,” the girl continued, “I’ll come and live in the hall. Yesterday, on his last night on these shores, my brother came to me. He promised that he’d look after me. I’m going to live with him and he’s going to find me a wealthy husband!” She laughed.

She turned around to run outside. Gudrun grabbed the staff that stood propped up against the wall. She swung it and hit the girl in the head. The girl fell.

Gudrun knelt by her side and turned her over. “Gersemi?”

The fragile body was so thin, so light. What if she really were dead. Would that be such a bad thing?

“Gersemi?”

This time the girl opened her eyes. Gudrun acted instinctively. She grabbed the slim shoulders, pulled her up, then used all her force to smash her head back against the stone. Again, then again for good measure.

Gudrun sat by her side for a long time, staring at the white face and the perfect smoothness of the veined eyelids. The girl didn’t move again, and Gudrun left.

The next night she slipped out on her own, with her dear Sigurd’s sword under her arm. The sky was deep blue above her; at this time of year there was no darkness.

She found the girl outside the cottage; she’d managed to crawl out.

When Gudrun raised the sword, the girl looked at her.

“Please,” she whispered, pleading for her life just like Gudrun’s wretched husband had in his last moments. “Please, no—”

But the sword fell.

Gudrun buried her under the pile of stones by the rock face. She staked the body with Sigurd’s sword and placed the severed head between the girl’s knees, to keep her from returning. Finally, she sang a galdr over the place, so that no one would think to look there.

She left feeling content; she’d done what her family’s honour demanded. She’d protected the precious Ylfing blood, keeping it pure and untainted by peasant stock.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some literature/references that inspired me
> 
> Clover, C. 1993. Regardless of Sex: Men, Women, and Power in Early Northern Europe. Representations, 44. pp. 1-24.
> 
> Hedeager, L. 2011. Iron Age Myth and Materiality: An Archaeology of Scandinavia AD 400–1000. London: Routledge
> 
> Jolly, K, Raudvere, C and Peters, E 2002, Witchcraft and Magic in Europe. The Middle Ages, London: Athlone.
> 
> Page, R. 2014. Chronicles of the Vikings: Records, Memorials and Myths. 2nd edition. London: The British Museum
> 
> Patton, K. 2009. Religion of the Gods: Ritual, Paradox, and Reflexivity. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
> 
> Price, N., 2019. The Viking Way: Magic and Mind in the Late Iron Age. Oxford: Oxbow Books
> 
> There's a companion post [here](https://ceceril.dreamwidth.org/14213.html) if you want to read my thoughts on this chapter.

**Author's Note:**

> Detailed spoilery warnings:
> 
> Offscreen sibling incest (not involving the main characters, and never described in detail), in which the younger one was groomed from an early age, and where this was made possible by parental and other neglect. One of the main characters is the result of this incest. Also another case of incest involving the same perpetrator and another victim (who also isn't one of the main characters).
> 
> Incestual tensions involving one of the main characters and the evil undead version of his half-sister (but no actual incest either in this state, or in the past).
> 
> Past rape/sexual abuse and enslavement (never described in detail) of one of the main characters, with elements of post-traumatic stress.
> 
> Suicide (not detailed or described, though the method is implied) of a minor character.
> 
> Un-negotiated D/s-ish overtones (femdom, but where the "domme" has significantly less power than the "sub" in real life, so there are issues there, too).
> 
> If you think this needs more warnings, please let me know. If you liked the story, please leave a comment. It would make my day!


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